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'Millicent, Millicent, look here! now this is too bad, just look at my carpet!' (my soul died within me!) I had my back to him. He was not far from the window; he seemed close to the spot where the catastrophe had happened. 'Yes,' said he, 'they will leave the windows open, and your brute of a pug has brought all this filthy gravel in on his paws.' I breathed again, and feeling constrained to say something, I observed, with a sickly smile, 'So our friend Oscar is very particular about his carpet, eh?' 'Particular,' said his little wife, 'indeed he is particular, and awfully so just now, for this is a new purchase, it was only laid down yesterday. You don't know how awfully fidgety Oscar is about his carpets-won't you have some tea?' This was not reassuring! I lost heart, I became completely demoralised, and I am ashamed to say I made a hurried excuse, and bolted out of the room, and out of the house, without telling my friends a word of what had occurred. On my honour I had intended to tell them, but could not muster up courage to begin; indeed, they never gave me the chance of doing so.

As I journeyed home I speculated whether that dreadful stain, like the crimson traces of a foul murder, might not reappear next day, or, horrid thought, whether my beloved Parlour Maid might not betray me. I feared she might do so; I felt she would be justified in doing so—indeed, that it was her bounden duty to do so; therefore, and before I went to bed,

I wrote my friends a penitential, I might almost describe it as a pitiful letter, and gave a full and true account of what had happened. I threw myself on their mercy,-but.

I forgot to say that I presented my Guardian Angel with a handsome donation of five shillings. And this is the end of a true story.

FAMILIARITY BREEDS CONTEMPT.

Robert McQueen (Lord Braxfield), a Scottish judge of the old school, playing at whist, exclaimed to a lady of rank, his partner, and of whose play he did not entirely approve, 'What are ye doin', ye

auld

?' and then suddenly recollecting himself, said, 'Your pardon's begged, my Lady, I took ye for my ain wife!

Some of the merit of this little anecdote is its extreme raciness; so I have been careful to omit the expletive and epithet, in order that the intelligent reader may select those which he, or she, may consider the most effective. The story is given in Mr. Trevelyan's most admirable biography of his uncle, Lord Macaulay.

AN UNFEELING RASCAL.

Old Hopkinson was walking in London streets when a man suddenly approached, snatched off his hat, and bolted with it. Hopkinson gave chase, and another man, who had observed the outrage, joined him. Away they both ran. At last old Hopkinson stopped, being completely out of breath, but the man who had joined him, encouraged him to go on. 'Run a little longer, sir,' said he. 'No,' gasped old Hopkinson, 'I can't.' 'Can't you run a step farther, sir?' said the man. 'No,' gasped old Hopkinson, 'not a step.' ‘Then,' said the unfeeling rascal, ‘hang you, I'll have your wig'-and he twitched off poor old Hopkinson's wig, and disappeared.

I

SURNAMES.

very often see the name of Pursey over a tailor's shop, No. 4, Swallow Street, Regent Street, and I have no reason for doubting that the owner, though only the ninth part of a man, is an excellent tradesman, not to say an artist, and, to judge by the way he spells his name, we may presume that he does not go in for giving himself the airs which would be perfectly excusable in the cadet of a powerful and ancient family. Certainly, the name, as I read it over his place of

business, has nothing special to recommend it; and this leads me to reflect how much the beauty or ugliness or dignity of a name springs from its associations. There is nothing noble in the name of Pursey. Anson and Nelson are well-sounding titles, yet, after all, one is only the son of 'Ann' and the other of Nel.' What Ishould we think of Pitt' and 'Fox' without their illustrious surroundings? In reality they are very poor names. Surely there ought to be a considerable future for the queer name of Cobden.

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You hear the Earl of Mar announced, and in imagination you are at once transported to the dim romance of our early Scottish History. What a proud title! but mar, in itself, is no better than jar, and not half so fine as the Right Honourable the Earl of Marmalade, K.G.

'The Blues' happen to be mentioned, the sound is rather overpowering; all the glory of H.M. Life Guards, their gold helmets and social splendours, are at once almost dazzling, but is there any such feeling as regards the Browns. I think Judas ought to be a pretty name, and what say you to Jezebel? In England the plebeians have the shorter names. Plantagenet is more patrician than Dick (the briefest-sounding name I know). I am assured it is entirely the reverse of this in China, where the most exalted personage in

1 'An eye like Ma's to threaten and command!'

the realm has next to no name at all-only a clickvery like 'Dick,' (but shorter) more like that noise which people make to urge along their cattle.

CHARLES FOX.

'In his tour to Switzerland, Mr. Fox gave me two days of free and private society. He seemed to feel and even to envy the happiness of my situation, while I admired the powers of a superior man, as they are blended in his attractive character with the softness and simplicity of a child. Perhaps no human being was ever more perfectly exempted from the taint of malevolence, vanity and falsehood.'—

Edmund Gibbon (1737-1794).

A MA FUTURE.

'Where waitest thou,

Lady, I am to love? Thou comest not,

Thou knowest of my sad and lowly lot

I looked for thee ere now!

'It is the May,

And each sweet sister soul hath found its brother,

Only we two seek fondly each the other,

And seeking still delay.

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