longer time intervened before Mrs. Hargrave received any tidings of her husband, and she still hopes to be called upon to pity and forgive, and to exercise the privilege valued even by the angels of heaven, of rejoicing over "the sinner that repenteth."

Having nothing more to say about my two heroines, my story_ought here to be brought to a conclusion; but I cannot resist relating a short anecdote to my readers. Captain Tracey was much disappointed at Emmeline's rejection: he was anxious, for very good reasons, to marry a woman with money. Heiresses were sure to have relations or guardians who inquired into his antecedents, and were not satisfied with the result of their inquiries: rich widows were surrounded by suitors, and he had never been fortunate enough to be singled out of the general group. Some months after Emmeline's rejection, he was introduced to a lady who had just taken advantage of the New Marriage Act, and had so successfully proved before the Court the various evil qualities of the husband whom she had taken "for better, for worse," that she had obtained a dissolution of marriage, and was living in affluence on her own fortune. Captain Tracey proposed to Mrs. Crosby, and was accepted. Lady Leighton, who was intimately acquainted with her, earnestly endeavoured to dissuade her from forming another marriage; and, as Lady Leighton had been informed of the conversation that had taken place between Mrs. Hargrave and Emmeline, she was "well up" on the subject of matrimonial duties: but perhaps her worldliness gave a tone to her advice which prevented it from being salutary, or perhaps the well-known fact that Sir Charles Leighton had been a doting husband from the day of marriage to the present moment deprived her of the power of doing good, by alluding, like Mrs. Hargrave, to her personal experience. However that may be, her arguments proved ineffectual, and Mrs. Crosby forfeited her newlyrecovered liberty to become the wife of Captain Tracey. A few months after her marriage she wrote in these terms to Lady Leighton:

"How truly do I repent, dear friend, that I did not follow your advice. I made an absurd calculation that because my first marriage was unhappy my second was sure to be quite the contrary, and fully prepared myself to realize in my two unions the title of an old novel- Matrimony the Height of Bliss, or the Extreme of Misery.' But I find my second husband much worse than my first in every respect, and my own powers of endurance are not what they used to be. When Crosby neglected or ill-treated me, my heart would often soften towards him when I recalled our early love, our fond courtship, our happy first years of marriage. But where is the romance-where is the tenderness of the courtship and marriage of a hardened man of the world, with a worn-spirited woman neither occupying the position of maid, wife, nor widow? I have no pleasant reminiscences of the past, and I am sure I have no pleasant anticipations for the future. Then, in my first marriage, I had nothing to reproach myself with. Crosby was approved by my

friends, and it was natural that a young inexperienced girl should like to become the wife of a handsome attractive man; but now, when I had

Poor

I hear that he is much

been gathering bitter fruits from the tree of experience for years, why should I trouble myself to engraft fresh branches on it? In the story of the 'Mountain of Miseries,' in the Spectator, the people laid down their burdens on the condition of each taking up the burden of some one else; but, in my case, I had laid down my burden unfettered by any conditions, and might have walked at liberty through the world, had I not chosen to encumber myself with a new and more heavy one. Crosby is still at Florence. hurt and grieved at my marriage, and says he wishes that I had had more patience with his faults. wishes he had valued my good qualities more, and I often think of the remarks that you told me your friend Mrs. Hargrave made about the sanctity of the marriage bond, and the duty of forgiving one another. She is a good woman, and deserves all the happiness that she enjoys. I feel that I have only myself to thank for my present misery; but far from deriving any consolation from this thought, it seems very much to enhance my regret. You understand quotations better than I do. Is there not a saying somewhere about being the architect of one's own ruin'? However, enough of this. I

think I have said enough to justify me in signing myself "Your unhappy friend,

"CHARLOTTE TRACEY."

Lady Leighton read this letter to Emmeline Cuthbert and Mrs. Hargrave, and the former expressed her heartfelt gratitude that she had been saved from crowning her trials and troubles by a marriage with Captain Tracey.

"It is a sad letter," said Lady Leighton, slowly refolding it; "I hope I shall never meet with such another."

"Do not be too sanguine," replied Mrs. Hargrave; "I fear that many similar letters will be the result of the second unions sanctioned by the New Marriage Act.

Palm

JAFFA.-Jaffa is a flourishing town, well built of stone, and with a look of comfort, when compared with Egypt, which seems blighted by oppression and decay, and where the whole country, and everything in it, is mud, quickly falling back into dust. trees are the colour of mud, buffaloes are the colour of mud, and so are the men likewise. Their houses are built of dried mud, and the whole country is made literally of the mud of the Nile. The wretched Fellahs, in Egypt, are miserable slaves; but, on landing in Jaffa, the independent bearing shows at once that the Syrian mountaineers are a very different race. They are practically independent of the sultan; and beyond the town gates the Turkish pashas have no real power. Even the stern hand of Ibrahim Pasha could not keep them from constant out-break; and the poorest half-naked Arab throws his ragged abbayah grandly about him, and stalks along with his sword in his belt as proudly as his chief. Indeed, the pashas, unless more than ordinarily energetic, are perfectly unable to protect any one outside the city walls; and the Silwannes, within a gun-shot of them, say he is no pasha at all. -Reminiscences of Eastern Travel. C

KEATS.

It is an established fact, that the physical features of a country produce a marked effect upon the character of the inhabitants, and particularly upon the imaginative faculties. So, in Brittany, not only does the stern and wild aspect of its granitic soil, impart a hard and obstinate character to the people, but their legends and superstitions partake in no slight degree of the rugged and sombre nature of the country.

The epicurean might bask in the warmth and stillness of an Egyptian night; and fauns and nymphs might dance over the sun-lit glades of Greece: but the heather-clad landes and deepscarred ravines of Brittany, harmonized better with the terrible and the grotesque, than with the lovely and graceful: and accordingly we find that, as Egypt had her stately pyramids, and Greece her fair marble temples, the religion of old times in Brittany has come down to us in rude granite altars and unhewn obelisks; and instead of light-footed naiads and merry satyrs that peopled the groves of Arcadia, we have mischievous elves and frightful spectres; and the fairy-tales of Brittany are all taken from "the night-side of Nature," and addressed to the morbid terrors of the credulous and super

stitious.

Perhaps in no country in the world, is there such a rich mine of romance as in Brittany. Partly as an inherent characteristic of the Celtic nations, and partly from the peculiar position and features of the country, it may be regarded as the birthplace of fairy-lore; and scarcely a tale or tradition has come down to us in the records of other nations, particularly the Welsh and Irish, that may not be traced to its origin among the popular ballads of the Barzas Breiz.*

Human weakness, in every age, cast about for supernatural assistance, and has tried to explain the inexplicable by the creations of its fancy: and while the elaborate mythologies of Greece and Rome peopled the air, and the woods, and the streams with benevolent or evil-working

spirits, and every fountain had its attendant nymph, and every wave-beat shore its nereid, here, in Brittany, the lonely and sombre position of the people filled their minds with superstitious dread; and every valley, and every old tower, and dark wood became the haunted abode of a Lutin or a Gryphon, a Poulpikan or a Corrigon, whose aspect was terrible, and their appearance an omen of inevitable ills.

It has been while sitting upon the rude settle, before the fitful blaze of a wood fire in a Breton cottage that we have listened, half-credulously, to the fairy-tale, told in such a serious tone, that it was evidently as deep-rooted in the peasant's mind as the articles of his faith. What, indeed, is Catholicism in Brittany, but the old paganism baptized?

The first apostles who visited Armorica, in order to extend their influence, adopted many of the heathen customs and rites, merely changing the name of the patron saint, and diverting the worship to a different image.

It is well known, that in old Rome many a Venus became a Virgin Mary, Cupids were transformed into cherubims; and the god Pan, with horns, and hoofs, and tail, became, by an easy transition, his Satanic majesty himself."

So, in Brittany, they baptized the idols; and the populace had no objection to worship them under their altered names. They could not pull up the men-hirs or obelisks, so they christianized them by surmounting them with a cross: and instead of the old Druidical worship of the sun, they lighted up the fire in honour of St. John; and many a Pagan rite is performed in Christian temples, many a heathen prayer mixed with the adoration of the only true God.

"Les vaincus ont toujours tort." And so it came to pass, that as Christianity succeeded to the honours of the ancient Druidism, the former divinities became in this case most justly the evil genii of the epoch which succeeded; and instead of the priests of Hu, and the priestesses of Koridwen, who once were ranged among the granite altars, malevolent spirits haunt the old relics of the past, and deal out maledictions on

The name of Korrigan, with its various

Celtic variations of Koridgwen or Galligan, is given particularly to the fairies who haunt the sacred fountains; but they are endowed with ubiquity, and the power of Protean change: while the Poulpikans are the dwarfish elves of the rocks and the morass. Sometimes, in the clear twilight of springtide, they may be seen assembled together, near a fountain, to celebrate their fête. Exquisite dishes are placed on a snowy cloth, and crystal vases shed an electric light upon the repast. A wondrous liquor circulates in the cups, one drop of which would make a mortal wise as a god: but at the slightest human footfall they disappear, and leave no trace behind. They have a great passion for music, but do not dance like their German cousins. Their height is about two feet, and they are often seen combing their shining hair. Seen at night, their faces have a celestial beauty; and their forms, exquisitely proportioned, are diaphanous and aerial as the gossamers: but, if seen by day, these moonlight beauties appear old and wrinkled and haggard, their hair grey, their eyes red, and their cheeks furrowed.

There is a moral in this: "La nuit tous les chats sont gris." It does not suit every complexion to wait for the sunrise after a night's dancing; and are there many who can bear being held up to the light, and their reputations exposed to the midday beams of truth?

The peasants declare that these fairies are nothing less than the princesses and priestesses of old Armorica, who refused to embrace christianity at the teaching of the Apostles, and were consequently anathematized and transformed into fairies.

This accounts for their hatred to religion, and on their side the priests have an equal animosity to them, classing them with the spirits of darkness, and putting them to the rout with bell and book and holy water.

Perhaps it is the priesthood which has given them such a bad character; for a bad name they certainly bear among the peasants. They have an evil eye, and their breath is mortal; whoever troubles the water of their fountain or surprises them combing their hair, or counting their treasures-the gold and diamonds which they have hid under the dolmens-is sure to die within the year, especially if it happen on a Saturday, the day particularly appropriated to their adversary-the Virgin.

Nevertheless, the peasants are not deterred by the fear of consequences from digging about the old Druidical stones; and many a huge giant lies prostrate or half recumbent from the undermining of a rustic treasure-seeker.

Christian child instead of their own horrible little demons; and woe to the mother who omits to put her child under the protection of the Holy Virgin, by tying round its neck the chapelet or scapulary, that alone, as they say, is proof against witchcraft.

If the Korrigan finds a cradle left unguarded, she takes away the infant and leaves her own in its place.

Not long ago, says our informant, there was a young woman, a farmer's wife, of Moustoirac ; she had a baby, beautiful as an angel. She left it only for an instant; and when she returned to nurse it, it was a horrid little monster whom she took to her bosom-a Poulpikan, with snaky eyes and hairy claws-that fastened on her like a cupping-glass, and suckled like a vampire, and could not be removed till it had drained every drop of blood from her body.

Another woman was nearly victimised, but found out her mistake in time; and that by a remedy, which at the risk of offending the little folks, we should recommend to all papas and mammas who have such a naughty child that they are in doubt whether it is not a little Poulpiquet changeling.

Her child was growing up, increasing only in mischief, not in stature, playing all kinds of goblin tricks, teasing the cattle, setting the dogs fighting, and always in a pickle; till at last, Catharine Cloar-that was the mother's nametold her suspicions to her husband. He waved his pipe, and answered never a word; but a wise woman of the village advised her to try the experiment of a sound whipping; "and if," said she, "it is a Poulpiquet, the Korrigan will hear its cries, and come and reclaim her child."

Catharine did not wait long to put her plan into execution. The very next time Master Troublesome got into mischief, she took down her husband's whip, and gave him a tremendous beating, and the more he cried, the more she laid on. Sure enough in walked the fairy mother, holding in her hand the long lost child of the farmer's wife.

Here, take your brat, woman," says she, "and give me back mine; I have done your child no harm, and I won't have my own beaten."

So saying, she took up the hideous little imp in her arms, wiped away its tears, and vanished.

In the following popular ballad, which is almost identical with a Welsh song on the same subject, a mother loses her child, a hideous dwarf being substituted for it. The changeling pretends to be dumb-aware that his cracked husky voice would betray his age and his origin.

No doubt they would like a nice little plump