severe.

and we

Auch rubbish is yea

at it makes the world of review

Yet I think there is a vast differen between calm and just severity, and writin cutting and, at the same time, amusing little bit of sarcasm for the sake of the reading of the re view. For instance, Macaulay's critique on Robert Montgomery is splendid, but I doubt if the great writer took, as he professed to do, the passages quoted at random, or if his own poetical compositions, or those of any other man, could bear a similar analysis. becomes the work of an almost unknown writer. I am afraid this preface ill Let me in conclusion say a few more humble “Willie Atherton” will, without doubt, be disThe sorrowful tone and tragical end of tasteful to a people which has lately hissed tragedy off its most legitimate place, the stage. I would be far from wishing to parade private sorrow on the public ear. seem too dreary, I would plead the circumstances But in apology for what may

words.

RTON.

alth and vig

n earth. A month before

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reviewer publication of my book, consum

a vast dnd's death of deaths, had carried her to an Ey, and mely grave. Her prolonged sufferings have using litt spread a gloom over the minds of those who knew ding of thand loved her; doubtless their effects will be traceique on R able in this work. Trusting "Willie Atherton,” with all its faults and shortcomings, may be worthy the perusal of a British public and the dear al comp memory to which it is dedicated,

t if the g

the pass

WILLIE ATHERTON.

CHAPTER I.

All the world's a stage,

And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits, and their entrances ;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms;

And, then, the whining schoolboy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school.-As You Like It.

WHAT can be more wearisome or more uninteresting to a casual observer, than the survey of a boys' school? I remember once hearing a lady exclaim, "Boys in jackets and trousers are as much alike as young lambs." Stay a moment—are lambs exactly alike? Here comes a shepherd, let us ask him. He strokes his head, and tells us that not two sheep, young or old, of his flock have the same faces or expressions. Our business at present is with the youngsters who are the fathers of the men and heroes of our tale. It is unfair to dart upon a man and judge him, while we are unconscious of the temptations which he has withstood, the means of improvement which have been with

B

held from him, and the influences under which he has become what he is.

Mrs. Millbanks' preparatory school was well-known to many an anxious father and mother. The establishment was styled "preparatory," not meaning thereby that the A B C was taught in that huge house, but that Latin and Greek were studied there from the Alpha to the Omega, and young gentlemen prepared for Harrow and Eton. The school has passed away with a great many other good things. Could Mrs. Millbanks' ghost arise from under the broken pillar in Highgate churchyard, it might sigh in the words of our gentle poet

Where once we dwelt our home is known no more.

Sic transit gloria mundi. Mrs. Millbanks lived in the days when little boys were dressed in huge collars frilled-frills were in fashion just then— tunics opened down the front, with frilled shirts to match the collars, white duck trousers with two narrow tucks to let out for growing. A pretty, cool dress it was considered by the fond mammas of those times.

A quarter-past eight o'clock one winter's evening, the boys confided to Mrs. Millbanks' care were assembled in the school-room preparatory to prayers. There was a jolly, rosy look about the majority of them that spoke well for the Highgate air and their governess's kindness. A deafening chatter was going on, every one seemed