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as we have already seen, Jane had fallen, or very nearly fallen, into her snare. It was upon this great scheme of Smylar's that all depended. What was to save the poor girl we yet do not know; the trap was set and baited, and the recent defection of the colonel from the rouge and ringlets made the case considerably more desperate.

Taking these circumstances in conjunction with the unsettlement of Jane's mind-supposing it ever to have been settled-produced by the appearance of Frank in the domestic circle at Amersham's, and which, as nobody-except perhaps Mr. George Grindle himself-could doubt would produce results the most disadvantageous to the intended bridegroom, Smylar began to rejoice in the midst of her anger and jealousy at the prospect which presented itself. Judge then what must have been her exultation when, on the evening of the very day on which she received the intelligence of the location of the baronet and his younger son exactly where she wished them to be, she found the colonel, having dined at home, disinclined to leave his house, and desirous of some conversation with her after the manner of the olden time.

How the woman's ears tingled when Mr. Rumfitt announced that the colonel wished to speak to her! how her bad heart beat as she hastened to the room in which he had been dining. Her plot had succeeded-her scheme for making a quarrel between him and Lady Gramm had turned out well-she felt assured of it, and as upon that depended all, she could scarcely control the motion of her limbs as she paced the passages to reach his presence.

"Smylar," said the colonel, as she entered the room, "sit down, Smylar. I wanted to talk to you about getting ready for Jane's wedding. Time goes on, and I suppose their grief for Mr. Leeson wears off; and I had a letter from Jane to-day, who writes in better spirits than usual, and so I was thinking about what we had best do in making arrangements here for the-what do the French call breakfast?"

"Déjeuner," said Smylar.

"That'll do," said the colonel, "that's it. I have forgotten my French, and my English too, almost."

"I thought, colonel," said Mrs. Smylar, "that you intended Lady Gramm to be the-"

"There, that'll do," interrupted the colonel; "I know nothing of Lady Gramm. She is a conceited old doll; and her friend Miss Pheezle and her infernal verses are as bad. No, no, we can do without Lady Gramm; you can manage all-everything."

"But," said Smylar, with a face into which the most beautiful expression of ingenuousness was thrown, "have you and her ladyship quarrelled, colonel ?"

"That affair is settled," said the colonel. "Some good-natured friend of her's and mine-most probably that Miss Pheezle herself— wrote to her to tell her that I wanted her jointure to make up for what I was to give Jane, and so she flew into a rage, and asked me whether I supposed she ever would marry me, even if I asked her, and so in short our acquaintance is at an end."

"Somebody wrote ?" said Smylar, innocently. anonymous letter, colonel ?"

"What, was it an

"Yes," said the colonel. "Infernally anonymous. Nothing could be worse, as she represented it. But there's an end; it was the woman's own fault. She was always throwing out hints about the loneliness of widows and all that, and Miss Pheezle used to write poetry about it. However, that'll do-only don't let me hear the woman's name again— that's all."

"Well," said Smylar, "it only shows how very strangely things turn out in this world. From the moment I first saw Lady Gramm I made up my mind that she would come to be mistress of this house, and thought what a comfort it would be to you when Miss Jane was gone, to have such a companion."

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Ah," said Bruff, filling his fair friend a bumper of claret. "I want no companion like my Lady Gramm. I shall cut down my establishment, and, as I told you before, take a smaller house and live snug, and —eh, Smylar ?—here's your health, old woman. Yes, you know all my ways; my little oddities, what I call my crinkums and my crankums, you can manage for me."

"Why, colonel," said Smylar, " as far as I am able I shall always be too happy to do what I can to keep things straight and comfortable; but then Lady Gramm would have taken charge of the establishment in so different a manner."

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May be so," said the colonel; "who knows? What! Here, draw your chair this way-have another glass of wine. The divil take Lady Gramm, there's nothing like habit-nothing like old friends." Saying which the gallant colonel exhibited strong symptoms of being exceedingly affectionate to Mrs. Smylar, which as being unquestionably conducive to the completion of her great plan, was to that ingenuous lady most particularly acceptable.

"And what," said Smylar, withdrawing herself gracefully from the immediate proximity of the gallant soldier, "what does dear Jane say in her letter to-day? I suppose Mr. George Grindle is there?"

"Yes," said the colonel, somewhat puzzled as to what to add, inasmuch as although Smylar's information respecting Frank's domestication in the house had been premature, the fact was now established. "Yes, Sir George is there, and some other people.'

"And Mr. Frank?" said Smylar, inquiringly.

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Why," said the colonel, "I believe yes-a snug family party." "Of which you ought to be one," said Smylar. "Now, colonel, don't you blame me if things turn out wrong in this house. I have given you warning,"

"Yes," said Bruff," and sent me down on a wild-goose chase for no purpose."

"I don't know," answered Mrs. Smylar "whom you may call a wild-goose; but take my suggestion at the worst, I was only wrong in point of time. The amiable and all-accomplished Mr. Francis Grindle, you say, is now staying in the same house with Jane."

"Well, and what then?" cried Bruff in a tone of impatience, "Jane is engaged to be married; where is the danger, or impropriety, or anything else, in her associating with her future brother-in-law. No more as I see than with her future father-in-law. Set your wits to work in making preparations for the-the what is it?-the déjeuner-and

leave me to settle all the rest.

Rely upon it, Smylar, I know what I

am about, and if I didn't, Sir George Grindle does."

Had there been a third person present at the scene which has just been described he might have seen the expression which animated Mrs. Smylar's countenance when the colonel expressed his opinion of his own intellectual qualities. As far as matters were at this juncture proceeding, her triumph was complete. Everything seemed to work exactly as she wished; and when she went to order the colonel's coffee, she was as well satisfied with herself as ever she was in her life.

On the day following this conversation Amersham received a letter from Miles Blackmore in answer to his "delicate question," and it was just such an answer as anybody who had the pleasure of Mr. Miles Blackmore's acquaintance might have expected. It contained nothing whatever relating to the subject under discussion. It was short, abrupt, and written, as Amersham thought, under strong excitement. The main point-indeed the only important point which it contained, was the intelligence that Blackmore intended to be in England in a few days, till which time he would postpone the announcement of whatever intelligence he might be able to procure. Not a name nor a fact was to be found in the letter, so that when Emma communicated to Jane the reply which her husband had received, her heart sank within her, doomed as she was to an uncertainty with regard to the vices of the man to whom she was destined to be married, they being in her mind constantly in comparison with the virtues of his brother, of whom she might never think, except as a friend.

Time however flies, and matters are drawing to a conclusion. George Grindle, rather ennuyé by the "domestic comforts" of Amersham's circle, found it absolutely necessary to run up to town for a couple of days, which he accordingly did, leaving Jane to the more than usual unmitigated enjoyment of the society of Frank, who feeling the embarrassment of the position in which he was placed, devoted himself to Mrs. Amersham, whose look and manner indicated not only her estimation of his qualities and accomplishments, but her just appreciation of the line of conduct he had adopted.

What Jane thought about it, we cannot pretend to say; but this is certain, that when George took his departure for town, and the weddingday was positively fixed for that day fortnight, she hated him more than she ever had previously.

SONNETS.

FROM THE ITALIAN OF FILACAJA.

I.

ON DIVINE PROVIDENCE.

As a fond mother o'er her children bends

In melting love, and clasps one to her breast,One at her feet, one on her knee she tends,

Whilst to another's brow her lips are press'd;
And 'mid their sports and murmurs still attends
To every varied fanciful request,

Whispers to one-to one a glance she sends,
And smiles or chides, in all her love confess'd;
So watches over us the sovereign power

Of Providence; this comforts, that supplies,
Hears all, and doth on all His mercy shower.
And if some grace or favour He denies,
'Tis but to teach the soul her prayers to pour,
Or by denial graciously replies.

II.

ON THE LOSS OF SIGHT.

Already, ere my sun of life descend,

The shades of night are closing o'er these eyes, Lessening the worth of those frail things we prize, Which to the world their vain adornments lend. My failing sight these shadowy forms offend, Eternal objects (I dared once despise, Forget or lightly think of) now arise, And round me still in magnitude extend. Thus, as in feeble light the diamond's ray

Gleams out, and brighter doth itself reveal Than when exposed to the broad glare of day; So doth my feeble sight teach me to feel Supernal things, and the dark shade display The brighter glories of the empyreal!

III.
NO!

FROM THE SPANISH OF ARRIAZA.

How often prostrate at your feet I lie,
And turn to you a face bedewed with tears;
Beg from your lovely lips, to soothe my fears,
A Yes' which, cruel one! you still deny.
And when again I think each deep-drawn sigh
Hath moved compassion in your frozen breast,
Oh grief! instead of 'Yes' I hear expressed
A 'No,' which bids my hope for ever die.
Alas! if all my plaints be fruitless still,

If still on me your indignation dart,
And you would have me abject still and low,-
Wreak, wreak on me at once your cruel will,
In mercy plunge a dagger in my heart,
But give me not again that cruel "No!"

PICTURES AND PICTURE-DEALERS.

THAT ever we should be called upon to link two such categories together! It used to be painting and poetry-they were sister arts-ut pictura poesis. Heaven seemed to have joined them, and no mah thought of putting them asunder. Behold a change! It is now Pictures and Picture-dealers! 66 Misery," the proverb says, "makes us acquainted with strange bedfellows," but prosperity and wealth make us acquainted with stranger. Formerly a real connoisseur of what was high in art, if he possessed a fine picture, would as soon have bartered it for sordid gain as he would have bartered his soul. Now the only real connoisseurs of fine pictures are those who gain possession of them only to part with them-the picture-dealers. In a word, formerly the connoisseur and the amateur, or, to speak plain English, the Knower and the Lover of pictures, were one and the same individual; whereas now, the knower of a fine picture cares nothing about it beyond the money it will bring him; and the lover of a fine picture knows nothing about it beyond the money that it cost him.

And all this is in the nature of things, for reasons which will appear presently. In the meantime let us be allowed for a moment to indulge in the pleasing speculation of what might be made of this joint topicPictures and Picture-dealers—if we were but in the fitting vein-the vein poetico-satirical. Pictures on the one hand, which are the next best things to poetry; and picture-dealers on the other-which are, in relation to pictures, the next worst things to booksellers in relation to poetry. But there is a time for all things. A certain king exclaimed on a certain occasion, "It is our royal pleasure to be drunk;"-and drunk he was accordingly. Now it is our pleasure just at present to be, not poetical about pictures, nor critical, nor philosophical, nor fanciful, nor fantastical, but only to be useful; and therefore it is that we have linked pictures and picture-dealers together, and propose to give the reader a little dry, business-like information about them, jointly and severally; showing the necessary connexion that exists between them, how it has come to exist, and to what end it exists.

The truth is, that of late years the dissemination of wealth and civilisation has been so rapid and universal, and the growth and spread of taste in art have kept such equal pace with them, that it has become necessary to extend "the division of labour" principle to matters with which formerly it had no art or part; and our great picture-fanciers can now no more make up their galleries without the intervention of a Segur or a Woodburn, than our sporting noblemen or millionaires can make up their betting-books on the Ledger or the Derby without that of a Gully. As the progress of science has made the barber and the surgeon two, so has the progress of taste and wealth (as we before hinted) made the connoisseur and the amateur cease to be one.

At the commencement of the present century there were but two or three persons in London publicly known as dealers in works of art and vertú, and their speculations were extremely limited, and employed but little capital. Now the number must amount to some hundreds, several of whom possess a stock of from ten to twenty thousand pounds in value. These, the Woodburns, the Nortons, the Smiths, the August.-VOL. LXII. NO. CCXLVIII.

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