expense. He had consulted with his solicitor, who had advised him to hand over Tito to the parish authorities of Flatborough, who would pass Tito over to the parish authorities of the district in London where Colonel Zalez had resided for many years. He told Tito that the parish would use every exertion, and take far greater pains to find his father than he could do with a great school on his mind, and that he was taking the best and surest means to put Tito in his father's hands once more. He liad no doubt that the parish would treat Tito very well, and that Tito would be very happy; but his auditor having his own opinion on this subject, went away discomfited. His last inquiry was "When is this to be, Mr. Price?" "Oh, not this week," said the master assuringly, "or the next. Not till Michaelmas, at any rate." Somehow the fate that loomed before Tito became known also to the boys, and was canvassed during play-hours, and generally set down as a "jolly shame," not any of us taking into consideration the ways and means of Mr. Price, and the appetite-always a good oneof Tito Zalez, and the rapid growth upwards and sideways-for Tito kept filling out rapidly -of the unfortunate pupil, who was out of his clothes again before any one knew where he was. Once the bright idea occurred to us of getting up a subscription to pay his arrears amongst ourselves and our parents, but the united contributions only amounting, after all the harass of canvassing, to eight shillings and threepence three farthings, it was thought advisable to return the subscriptions to the Tito fund. The second idea was entirely my own, and consisted in suggesting to my father, in a friendly and persuasive note, that Tito would be worth adopting, being a very nice and amiable boy, whom everybody would like at home. This idea was dashed to the ground by my father's courteous but decisive reply in the negative, and Tito, who had built a little on this letter, said, "Never mind, Joe," and asked whether Michaelmas-day always fell on the 29th of September. On the twenty-eighth, in the dusky evening, which steals upon us so early at this date, and when the boys were strolling about the playground, waiting for the bell to ring them to tea, Tito suddenly came to me with the bottoms of his trowsers tucked up, and his threadbare jacket buttoned to the chin, in a way that looked like business, and said, "Good-bye, Joe-I'm off." "Off-off where?" "Hush! don't make a noise; but I can't stand the notion of a workhouse-I'm afraid of it; and-ugh!-the skilley! To-morrow's Michaelmas-day, and I'm going to run away." "You don't mean it?" "Yes, I do." 66 But what's to become of you?" "I shall enlist for a drummer, perhaps, or turn farmer's boy, or something. I'm off at once, through the school window, over the washhouse tiles, and so into the back lane." Tito's sudden resolution took all my breath away; the novelty of the expedition aroused my love of adventure, and regardless of consequences, future hardships, future punishment from the hands of Mr. Price, and the sin of disobedience to my pastor and master, I said— "I'll go a little way with you, Tit, and come back again before they shut up for the night." 66 But how you will catch it!" Yes, I know that; but I should not like you to start alone." "Thank you, Joe; it's very kind of you; but I think you had better stop." I thought so also, but I went with Tito; and we succeeded in getting from the school by the way which my small friend had ingeniously sketched out. When we were outside the playground wall, and heard the boys' voices welling to our ears from the other side, our hearts sank a little at the boldness of the step, and we hurried on somewhat crestfallen to the sea-shore, and went on by long low-lying sands, knowing that the tide was out, and that we were not likely to meet anybody at that hour to stop us before we reached the King's Gap. This was a cleft in the cliffs, where I was to part with him, and wish him God-speed on his journey. Tito had a bundle with him, in which he had packed a small great-coat, his socks, one shirt, a cricket-ball, a large bag of marbles-the boys were always giving him marbles, by way of token of their respect for him--a few halfpenny prints which he had coloured, and a volume of fairy-tales that his father had given him. The night was soon upon us, and we grew less stout-hearted in the darkness, and were doubtful if the sea might not come up more quickly than we had bargained for, and cut us off from the King's Gap before our tired legs could wade through the deep sand towards it. But we reached the gap in safety, crept past the coast-guard house on the station, and then paused to consider the next step. This was the place of parting; but a look back at the dark country road I had to traverse, and a sudden remembrance of all the horrible stories I had heard of travellers being assassinated in lonely districts, and of children being stripped by gipsies of their clothes, and turned adrift to die of cold, deterred me from returning to Belvoir House till daylight. I said that I would go on with Tito; and Tito, who had looked dismally in his direction also, said, "Thank you, Joe," and was evidently grateful for my company. despite our fears; and when we woke again, hearing the hum of voices near us, we found that it was morning, and raining hard still, and that a red-faced man and a rosy-faced girl with milk-pails were looking down upon us in intense astonishment. "Lawks!" the girl said; "what are you a-doing here? What boys are you?" I looked at Tito, and he returned my glance; our spirits were at zero, and it seemed necessary to give in. "We're from Mr. Price's school at Flatborough, and should be glad to get back," said Tito. Flatborough why, that's fifteen miles from here," said the farmer's man. "You don't mean to say that you two little chaps have been a-playing truant-good gracious!" We were both becoming very nervous, but we kept up appearances for a while. We took the wrong turning, and found ourselves on the edge of the cliff again. We made a short cut across a field to "try back" for the roadway, and lost ourselves completely. We went wandering about meadows and turnip fields in vain efforts to get off farmers' property, and failed. We were frightened almost to death by a white cow that bellowed suddenly over a hedge at us, and Tito dropped his bundle in his hurry, and we had to creep back cautiously for it, but were never able from that night to set eyes upon it again. We were overtaken by the rain ---a heavy, steady down-pour, that washed the last atom of courage from our hearts. "Joe," said Tito suddenly, "I wish I hadn't lunatic asylum five miles off. The farmer was come." "So do I," I assented; and then, with our heads very much bent forward, to keep the rain from our faces, and to allow it more easily to find its way down the backs of our necks, we, two foolish miserable hearts, trudged on, doubtful if we were walking over crosscountry to London, or back again to Flatborough. When it came to thunder and lightning along with the rain, the climax had arrived, and Tito burst into tears, and wished that he was in his comfortable workhouse, and that I was out of trouble; and then the friendly shelter of an old shed, with the doors off, suddenly coming across our path, we darted into it, and huddled together in one corner, praying for the daylight. How the long night passed we never knew. We went to sleep at last, with our arms round each other's neck, and thought of "The Children in the Wood." We were scared once more by the white cow, who came in with stately tread out of the rain also, and snorted and sniffed about us, and finally lay down across the doorway, barring our egress, and pretending to go to sleep. Tito said that it might take us unawares when we followed its example. We did not know that it was a cow till the morning, our impression being that it was a bull of the very maddest description, and one to be especially wary of, if we set any value on our lives. Somehow we dozed off to sleep at last, But we did mean it; and Tito said that, if they could put his friend Joe in the right road for the school, they might drop himself at the nearest workhouse, when they went that way, as it was all the same, and he was expected there; a piece of information which gave our listeners the impression that we were from the sent for, and as he knew Belvoir House well, and was going to Flatborough on business that morning we were in a fair way towards the end of our adventure, and its unsatisfactory results. We drove to the school after a breakfast which we were not in a fair condition to enjoy; and Mr. Price, his wife, the assistants, half the boys, and Wickers, were in the hall to see our ignominious return. 66 "You dreadful boys," Mr. Price said: what a terrible fright you have given me, and what a deal of trouble! The county police are looking everywhere for you. What made you go away?" "Please, sir, Tito was afraid of the work. house," I explained; "and as he did not know his way to London, I thought that I would just put him on his road.” "I'll talk to you presently, Simmons," said Mr. Price, meaningly; and then he turned to Tito and said "You need not have been afraid of Michaelmas-day, Tito, for I had made up my mind to risk another quarter; but your anxiety of mind was to a certain extent excusable, and I shall not punish you severely." I felt a twittering all along my spine, but said not a word against his manifest partiality. And, my boy, I am very happy to relieve you from a great suspense this morning," said Mr. Price, laying his hand on Tito's curly head. "Here is to-day's paper, with a telegraphic despatch from Central America." Tito's troubles were ended from that day. The next mail brought a letter from President Zalez, whose political intrigues had thrown him into prison, and then had placed him at the head of a government, and Mr. Price's account was settled in due course. I met President Zalez at an hotel in New York, whither he had gone for a holiday, two years ago, and his son Tito was then a bigger fellow than his father. We laughed over Tito's troubles at a princely banquet which the great man gave us, and, as he smoked his paper cigarettes, we reminded him of our first treat together in the little town of Flatborough-onthe-Sea. "When you were Tito's best friend," he said, holding out his hand to me across the table. "Thank you, Master Simmons!" I was afraid that he would have kissed me again in his gratitude, but he sat down, sighed as though the cares of government were a little in the way of the peace and rest that he had found in England, leaned back in his chair, and lighted another cigarette. FLORA'S HOROLOGE. [Mrs. Charlotte Smith, born in London, 4th May, 1749; died at Tilford, 28th October, 1806. Novelist and miscellaneous writer; author of Ethelinde; Celestina; Desmond; and The Old Manor House, which is considered the best of her novels. Robert Chambers said of her works: "The keen satire and observation evinced in her novels do not appear in her verse; but the same powers of description are displayed."] In every copse and sheltered dell, Unveiled to the observant eye, Are faithful monitors who tell How pass the hours and seasons by. The green-robed children of the spring Will mark the periods as they pass, Mingle with leaves Time's feathered wing, And bind with flowers his silent glass. Mark where transparent waters glide, Soft flowing o'er their tranquil bed; There, cradled on the dimpling tide, Nymphæa rests her lovely head. But conscious of the earliest beam, She rises from her humid nest, And sees, reflected in the stream, The virgin whiteness of her breast. Till the bright day-star to the west See Hieracium's various tribe, Of plumy seed and radiant flowers, The course of Time their blooms describe, And wake or sleep appointed hours. Broad o'er its imbricated cup The goatsbeard spreads its golden rays, But shuts its cautious petals up, Retreating from the noontide blaze. Pale as a pensive cloistered nun, The Bethlem star her face unveils, When o'er the mountain peers the sun, But shades it from the vesper gales. Among the loose and arid sands The humble arenaria creeps; Slowly the purple star expands, But soon within its calyx sleeps. And those small bells so lightly rayed On upland slopes the shepherds mark And thou, "Wee crimson-tipped flower," Unlike silene, who declines The garish noontide's blazing light; But when the evening crescent shines, Gives all her sweetness to the night. Thus in each flower and simple bell, RENSTERN. [Henry David Inglis, born in Edinburgh, 1795; died in London, 20th March, 1835. He wrote various books of travels in Norway, Sweden, Switzerland, France, Ireland, Spain, &c. His most important works are: The New Gil Blas, presenting graphic sketches of life in Spain; Travels in the Footsteps of Don Quixote; and Tales of th Ardennes, from which our extract is taken. Although an able and industrious author, his life was one of hardship and ill-requited labour.] Renstern was born to the inheritance of all the lands of Frankenthall. They extend from Ranstadt in Bavaria as far as Eindort; and he who could walk round them, from morning to his evening meal, would earn it well. Renstern was of an inquiring mind, more given to his studies than to his pleasures; for though his father left him in unrestricted possession at eighteen, he was rarely a partaker in those amusements and pursuits which his youth might have been supposed to incite him to,, and which his fortune would have enabled him to follow. Renstern, though a philosopher, was not indifferent to the charms of woman. Philosophy, indeed, generally gave way in the beginning, but in the end it was sure to regain its ascendancy. A fearful inroad, however, was made upon his studies by the charms of Ermance Rosenheim, just growing into woman, the daughter of the Baron Rosenheim, a Bavarian. There may, perhaps, have been lovelier girls than Ermance Rosenheim, but never one more gentle and innocent. She had that, too, which beauty sometimes wants, that perfect charm of youth and freshness, which seems as if sorrow never could shadow it. Her smile was like the daybreak on an Italian landscape, and the melody of her voice seemed an emanation from the harmony of her soul. Often would Renstern sit down to his metaphysics in the castle of Frankenthall, and remain absorbed in study, till suddenly, the image of Ermance presenting itself, he would close his books, order his horse, and gallop over to Eindort, to press a silky hand, and admire fair tresses. Do not imagine that, because Renstern was a philosopher, he knew not how to woo;-Renstern could say as gallant things as any man in Bavaria; but it was not gallantry he spoke to Ermance. He had an easy task; for he was sincere, and Ermance smiled upon him. It was often late when Renstern returned to Frankenthall; but finding his books lying as if waiting to be read, he would relight his lamp, and plunge into meta physics again, and morning would often surprise him at his studies. But this could not last. Renstern married Ermance on his twentyfirst birth-day; she was seventeen; and for more than a year he forgot in her arms all his metaphysics and theology. But the dominant passion of the human mind will continue to be dominant. Love is only an episode in a man's life; it cannot occupy his existence. The other sex give up all to the affections, and many of them can live for ever upon their exercise; but they are always deceived. Gentle, kind, affec tionate woman! we are too hard-hearted to be your mates: it is true we can love ardently; but it is you alone who know to love constantly. Renstern was again often among his books; and Ermance wondered that he was so often absent from her, and so silent when with her. Renstern still loved Ermance: he mingled in no amusement in which she was not a par taker, nor could he have found any pleasure where she did not share it. He thought he loved her as much as on the day when he led her from the altar in maiden bashfulness and beauty; and if his affection had depended upon her charms and her bashfulness, he would have been right; for Ermance was as lovely and as bashful as ever. But Renstern deceived himself; Ermance could no longer satisfy his existence. Ermance was no metaphysician: he could not talk to her of first causes and future contingents. The marriage state gives rise to many subjects of conversation less elevated than that which precedes it; and it is not wonderful that Renstern should often be silent and thoughtful in her company, since domestic affairs, or even tenderer topics, would cut but a sorry figure in the mind of a man who had just been travelling in the immensity of time and space, and whose mind was occu pied with eternal existences, and the nature of a Supreme Intelligence. Renstern betrayed, indeed, no want of affeetion, excepting that she had little of his company: his time was divided betwixt study and reverie. Poor Ermance! she was often given up to reverie too; for often did she think of the first months that succeeded her marriage, and often did she recall the words of Renstern, that he had attained the summit of happiness in possessing her. Alas! he spake too truly happiness cannot continue at one elevation. Six months had passed away. sail Renstern to Ermance, One evening Ermance, there is no reason why we should not live as our fortune and rank entitle us to do. We must enjoy life, my love." Do we not, Otto?" replied she. would you that we should live?" "How of fashion, in place of at the eternal tribunal of truth, and things can no longer be recognized by their names. Ermance found herself singular in her opinions, and for their correctness she appealed to Renstern; but Renstern saw no distinction betwixt vice and virtue. "I would carry you to Vienna," replied he; "I would introduce you at court; I would show you the world." The ladies of Vienna are not more virtuous than those of Paris or London. In Paris the spur to intrigue is éclat, and therefore there is no concealment. In London, it is the love of it, and therefore there is a great deal of hypocrisy. In Vienna, fashion and inclination conjoin. Judge, then, how much intrigue there must be in Vienna. Ermance did not see that living in greater splendour, or being introduced at the court of Vienna, would add to her enjoyment. Her happiest days had been spent at Frankenthall; and if Renstern would be again the Renstern he had once been, she could be as happy as ever. The recollection of those days, however, led her to indulge an undefined hope, that perhaps a change of scene might produce good. Besides, Ermance was too affectionate to oppose anything which Renstern might desire, whatever might be her own wishes. She immediately, therefore, expressed her willing-shade of sadness perhaps added to it, like the ness to go to Vienna. Their journey might be called a happy one-Renstern was himself again, and with Ermance former days were renewed. Renstern had an end in view, and all was novelty to Ermance. She was astonished, pleased, and affrighted by turns; she felt all that exhilaration of spirit, and infantine enjoyment, in crossing the boundaries of another kingdom, which every young person experiences when it is the first time it has happened. There is no circumstance in life which draws closer the affections than travelling. In everything that occurs there is a certain degree of common sympathy; and numerous occasions arrive in which the protector must show an interest in the protected. There was nothing to distract Renstern's mind; and the simplicity and astonishment and happiness of Ermance pleased and occupied him. Never had she appeared more charming either. The excitation had restored for a season that tint to her cheek which reminded him of Eindort; and one of the chains which had originally bound Renstern was beauty. Let no one speak lightly of the charm of beauty: it is fragile indeed; and what is not? Are health and youth more durable? and do we despise them? Is the painted flower we gaze upon less perishable? Beauty may be perchance a fatal dowry, and at rare times it may interpret falsely, like the Pontine marshes, which are covered with verdure and flowers; but how beautifully is an angelic soul reflected in celestial features! Behold the Baron Renstern of Frankenthall and the fair Ermance at the court of Vienna. The manners of Vienna are not those of Ranstadt. There, as in every other capital city, innocence and simplicity are despised,-vice and virtue are judged by the changing verdict Ermance had lost nothing of the beauty which had first captivated Renstern; a slight chiaro scuro which augments the beauty of a Claude. She possessed the attraction of novelty, besides, which, if it could not increase the lustre of her charms, had the effect of adding to their éclat. It may easily be supposed, therefore, that many were the worshippers of her beauty, and many the suitors for her favour; but it was soon discovered that she loved her husband; a circumstance that had never been imagined. The ladies of Vienna were sufficiently jealous of the beautiful stranger. They were jealous of her charms, and hated her for her virtue. Virtue has perhaps no triumph so great as the hatred of the vicious towards those who practise it; but as Ermance was virtuous and loved her husband, his fall might satisfy jealousy and expiate her faults; and Renstern being rich, and one of the handsomest men of his age, this revenge would neither be devoid of interest nor reward. Six months of Vienna ruined Renstern. No one in Vienna gave such magnificent entertainments; no one was more distinguished for the splendour of his equipages. These, however, his fortune could have supported; but he gave magnificent presents to his favourites -gambled-and was ruined. During this period what were the feelings and occupations of Ermance? Alas! sadness had begun to grow to her heart, and had already overcast her brow. Her charms were more touching than ever, though the light of her beauty was gone, like the charm of a southern night, whose beauty testifies to the splendours of the day which preceded it. She had mingled in gaiety without relish, and in society she had found no friend. The flattery she met with disgusted her, and the court that was paid to her fatigued her. She had seen |