nation, who, attracted by her musical talents, had run away with a young girl from a convent, and dared not return home, dreading the vengeance of her relatives. This romance served to render us objects of interest, and accounted for my persistent performances on the pianoforte. In this way we travelled nearly round the world. We gave up Europe, after an unmistakable hint to leave Russia, for Egypt, India, Japan, Australia, South America, and New York. I played my treacherous sonatas, and my husband swindled his guests at whist, piquet, écarté-every game in which my music made him independent of chance. He had often been suspected, but in the last place he was A Yankee, of whom he won several thousand dollars, accused him face to face, and when I expected no less than a fearful fracas and an immediate duel, coolly proposed to join partnership with him in fraud, and 'floated by the lady's assistance,' as he expressed it, 'squeeze the marrow out of creation!'

“Then I fired up. There was a fearful row. I gave vent to the indignation I had smothered for years. I spoke my mind freely, till at last he struck me--I'm sure I don't wonder-and I left the house, taking with me nothing but the clothes I had on, to earn my own livelihood, and never see his face again.

"I heard of him though, more than once, while I remained teaching music in New York and Boston, till I could scrape enough money together to bring me home. I heard of his trial for something like forgery, and the narrow escape he had through the manifest perjury of witnesses. I heard of him as concerned in all the gigantic swindles that come to full growth only in the States; the last I heard was that he had started as an accredited agent from one of the new republics, to the Spanish government at the Havannah, in a small steamer that had run many a blockade. The rest is too shocking to tell; but you have listened so far, Mr. Lexley, you must listen to the end.

"The steamer never reached her destination; the agent never arrived to present his papers; but after a long interval of suspense that steamer came ashore one morning with the flood, her rigging standing, her fittings untouched-(you see I am sailor enough to speak like one)-but her cabins rifled and ransacked; her decks, her bulwarks, her very taffrail stained with blood, and not a living soul on board. She must have been captured by pirates, who had not suffered one of her crew or passengers to escape. The surmise proved too true; and after a rigid inquiry was verified by the Spanish authorities, who sent a ship of war at once to hunt out and punish the offenders. Then I ordered my mourning, and went down on my knees to thank God that I had no children, and was free.

"I made my way back to England after a time, and resuming my maiden name managed to make a livelihood out of my music, and felt tolerably happy. I increased the number of my pupils, and earned

many a guinea playing at morning concerts. I wonder if I have ever played to you without knowing it. How odd it would be if I had! So time went on and I should have liked the life very well, but that it was so lonely. The concert people I didn't care about, and a woman who lives by herself in London-no compliments, please—cannot be too particular, so I had no friends. For days together I never opened my lips, except to say 'One, two, three, four,' to my pupils; so I took to reading the advertisements in the daily papers, and wondering if the lady who wanted a companion' would like such a companion

as me.

"At last I answered a notice that looked promising, made an appointment, called at the house, and was shown upstairs to Mrs. Dennison.

"We rub on together very tolerably. She is kinder to me than to any one else. Last season, in London, she says she found me a great comfort. I don't know how, nor why she required it, but if she is satisfied so am I. Then I came here for a few weeks in the autumn. Since that I have been staying in the Regent's Park with an aunt of my mother's, and a fortnight ago I returned for good. Now you know all about me, Mr. Lexley. Never breathe a syllable of my strange history. To you and to everybody here I am Miss Blair, and Miss Blair I must remain. We will both forget what you said just now, and continue, I hope, the very best of friends."

She put her hand out frankly, and he did what was very natural under the circumstances, if not very discreet. Taking it in both his own he pressed it to his lips, and embarked, as she must have foreseen, on a torrent of protestations, the fiercer that they had been so long kept back.

"I love you I love you!" he repeated; "the more dearly, the more madly, for all you have gone through. Oh! Miss Blair; after such a life as yours it is something to find an honest man, who would ask no greater blessing than to toil for you and serve you like a slave. I would shelter you from every storm, defend you against every enemy. If I cannot give you happiness, Miss Blair-Laura-I can give you rest."

It was what she most desired on earth. No practised suitor versed in women's ways could have invented any argument or entreaty so likely to prevail as this simple plea, that sprang from a truthful heart. She looked full in his face, with a sad smile.

"You little know," she answered, "all you are so eager to undertake. I ought to give you a frank and hearty 'Yes.' I will, too, but on certain conditions. I have a good deal of pride, Mr. Lexley, with other evil qualities you will find out in time, and none of your neighbours shall say that the adventuress at Plumpton Priors entrapped our parson into marriage under false pretences. You shall

go at once to Mr. Dennison. I believe him to be the kindest and most generous of men. You shall tell him my whole history, and ask his advice. I have perfect confidence in his honour. I will abide by his decision. If he thinks it feasible-why-perhaps we may argue the point again to-morrow in the same place. Here we are, back at the house, and you've never seen the harmonium after all. Good-bye. Will you do as I tell you?"

He drew her towards him; pressed one kiss on her forehead, and vanished, leaving Miss Blair in a state of much doubt and indecision as to whether she had done wisely or well.

Madame de Staël and her Times.

BY THE AUTHOR OF 'MIRABEAU.'

FRANCE is, par excellence, the land of famous women. England is far behind her in that species of greatness. Our women are too much hedged in by proprieties, too much under the domination of grimvisaged Mrs. Grundies, to allow their genius fair play. Probably the French go to an opposite extreme, and frequently stray too far beyond the Grundian barriers.

No more brilliant name than that of Madame de Staël is to be found among the female writers of any country. She stands in the first rank, if not at the head of all. As a brilliant writer of fiction she is unrivalled; no woman's novel ever attained to an equal celebrity with 'Corinne;' her 'De l'Allemagne,' her 'Réflexions sur la Révolution Française,' her Dix Années d'Exil,' and her works upon Literature soar into regions, and successfully, to which female genius seldom ventures to aspire, while as a conversationalist, those who enjoyed the happiness of her society say that she even surpassed the

writer.

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Anne-Louise-Germane Necker was born in the spring of 1766. She was the daughter of the Genevese banker afterwards so famous as the minister of Louis the Sixteenth. From her earliest years until his death her love for her father was almost idolatrous; like the maternal love of Madame de Sévigné, it is almost unique in domestic annals. "I owe to the wonderful penetration of my father," she says, "whatever candour my character possesses. He unmasked all false pretences, and from him I acquired the habit of believing that people saw straight into my heart." He was to her the model of all that was great and good: a man endued with all the virtues of an ideal Roman. So absorbing was her affection that she was jealous even of her mother -and her mother was jealous of her. There is a very good story told by Madame Necker Saussure, in her introduction to the collected works of Madame de Staël, which, as illustrating her filial love and certain vainglorious traits of character, is worth repeating. On the occasion of a certain visit which the narrator paid to the Neckers, at Coppet,* the carriage that had been sent to convey her from Geneva was overturned. Upon hearing of this accident, Madame de Staël was agitated by the wildest terror, not, as it may be imagined, on

*M. Necker's estate near Geneva.

account of her guest's narrow escape from injury, but from a possible contingency which the accident suggested to her mind. “Ah, heavens!" she exclaimed, "it might have been my father!" She ran to the bell, rang it furiously, and in a voice trembling with agitation ordered that the coachman should be instantly sent for. In a few moments the offender stood before her. "Have you heard that I am a woman of genius ?" were the first words she spoke to him. Her question was so odd and her manner so excited that he could not find a reply. "Have you heard that I am a woman of genius?" she repeated, yet more loudly and angrily. The servant, more confused than ever, was still silent. "Well, then, I am a woman of genius!" she said, hotly, "of great genius, of prodigious genius! And I tell you that all the genius I possess shall be exerted to secure your rotting all your days in a dungeon, if ever you overturn my father." When her agitation was over her friends rallied her upon this curious speech, but she failed to see the absurd side of it. "What had I to threaten him with except my poor genius?" she answered, naïvely.

The only injuries she could not forgive were those offered to her father; she could never endure to think that he was growing old, and a mere hint of such a thing would drive her into a fury. When he was dead every old man she saw recalled him to her memory, and to watch over the comforts and alleviate the sufferings of age was her greatest pleasure. She believed that her soul communicated with his in prayer, and whatever piece of good fortune befel her she would say, My father has obtained it for me.”

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"In Madame de Staël's case," says Saint-Beuve, "there is no difficulty in accounting for the enduring warmth of her filial devotion. Amid the ruin which, as she advanced in life, successively overtook all the illusions of her heart and thoughts, one single mortal, one only of her old loves, retained his exalted place in her memory, untouched, untainted, without the slightest stain or infidelity to the past; and the immortal and purified flames of her youthful devotion still played about that august head.”

Madame Necker was the daughter of a Swiss Calvinist clergyman; she was a woman of talent, but cold, Puritanical, and severe. She wrote a little, would have written more, but her husband was averse to such employment of her time; for which aversion he alleged a very curious excuse he disliked, when entering her apartment, to feel that he had interrupted her in a serious occupation! So when madame did write it was by stealth. But she principally devoted herself to the education of her daughter, of whom she desired to make a prodigy. The consequence of which ambition was, that the child fell ill through overstudy, and was peremptorily ordered by the doctors to be sent into the country, and entirely exempted for some months from all intellectual exertion.

Nevertheless, little mademoiselle was a prodigy-a wonderfully pre