the boldness of each downstroke-so firm, so clear, so elegant-surely all denote evenness of temper, correctness of conduct, and a pure and accomplished mind. Oh! Emily, dearest Emily! how have I wronged you by my base suspicions. Wretch-villain-illiberal beast that I am, how I hate myself." And in evidence of his self-detestation, he capered about the apartment, sang, "No more by sorrow chased my heart," in imitation of Braham; rang for hot water, and made himself as clean and as comfortable as it was possible for a person in his excited circumstances to do. He cast his doubts and fears to the winds, and while reading, admiring, and repeating to himself the sweet billet a hundred times, proceeded to Sloane-street, to revel in all the pure ecstasies of mutual love. He gave a nervous knock at the door; it was opened; Miss Brown was not within; 'twas a calm autumnal evening, she had gone for a walk, but would soon return. Alfred was asked into the drawing-room, that apartment into which he had not entered since the terrible night of the strange shadows on the blinds. As he sat there regarding the windows, he grew restless-a jealous thought occasionally disturbed his tranquillity, which he in vain strove to dispel. A knock was heard at the street-door; thinking it to be Emily, he hastened to the stair-head to meet her. Horror! what figure met his eyes? 'Twas he of the Mackintosh cape. Alfred darted back to the drawing-room; it possessed folding-doors; he glided into the back apartment, resolving to scrutinize this mysterious stranger. The man entered the room alone, placed his hat on the table, and lolled in a chair, with all the familiarity of a person accustomed to the place. He snatched up a book, glanced over a page, flung it down again, whistled, and surveyed himself in a pier-glass, sighed, and minutely examined his boots. Through the aperture of the folding-doors Alfred deliberately surveyed the visiter. His face was pale; sorrow or dissipation had left their traces upon it: his hair was jet black, and which he carefully adjusted with a small comb that he produced from his waistcoat-pocket; he took frequent pinches of snuff, immediately afterwards applying a dingy brown handkerchief with dirty yellow spots to his gratified nostril; and he frequently sighed and seemed to be uneasy in his mind. He rang the bell; the servant of the house not immediately attending, he left the room and returned with a lighted candle; he opened a blotting-case on the table, and freely helped himself to a sheet of gilt-edged Bath post-considered-whistled-walked to the window-pulled down the terrible blinds, seated himself at the table, with his back to the folding-doors, mended a pen, and prepared to write. Alfred gently advanced from his place of concealment, and glanced over the writer's shoulder. A new horror filled his heart-a new gorgon started before his eyes. The man in the Mackintosh cape had commenced a letter thus:— "My dear Miss Brown,-One word from you restores me to happiness or plunges me into the depths of despair. Will you-can you forgive-" He paused to consider. Alfred at the forming of each letter felt as though they were being burnt into his living flesh. The handwriting was precisely the same as that of his letter from Emily Brown. The same upstrokes-the same downstrokes-madness and despair!-hethe man in the Mackintosh cape was the writer of that letter!-'twas not the hand of Emily; she had made a confidant of the wretch before him; the beautiful characters that he had so admired, so wept over, so "this kissed, had been formed by another, and that other, the substance of the dark shadow on the blinds-the familiar visiter-the man in the Mackintosh cape! The letter he was then writing was to ask forgiveness to heal some breach in their affection; and she-the jilt!-the hypocrite!-the very woman! Away with concealment, screamed Alfred-away with this mean watching-Devil!—and the next moment Stokes and the man in the cape were rolling on the floor. The deadly struggle was only interrupted by the entrance of Emily Brown and the maid. Alarm was in both their countenances. "Help!" cried Emily, "Help! oh! what is the matter? Mr. Stokes, are you a gentleman ?" She delivered this interrogatory with firm dignity, and then sank on a chair in a passion of tears. Alfred panting for breath fell into a seat opposite to her, while the object of his wrath sat on the floor and looked around him with a wild gaze of mingled amazement and rage, such as one may suppose a man to express on being trepanned into a private madhouse. "What is the meaning of this outrage?" sobbed Emily. "Meaning, Madam!" replied Stokes," when you write to me again, your delicacy will be better proved by the letter being in your own hand-or, at the least, let the writer be a female!" And with a withering glance of contempt, Alfred regarded Emily from head to foot. "I am wrong-I am a weak silly girl, but I have been sufficiently punished," answered Emily, her beautiful eyes overflowing with tears. "For what, Madam ?" said Alfred. "For sending you a letter. I was persuaded to it; but no matter-'tis over now.' Really," said the man in the cape, for the first time recovering his breath, conduct is most extraordinary, really." He was proceeding to expostulate with the stern Alfred, when he was suddenly interrupted by Emily. "Alfred (said she), I will, I must undeceive you; concealment will but increase our mutual torments. I will now confess all." "Go on," groaned Alfred, with the resignation of one of Fox's martyrs. "You implored me to write to you; you continually declared yourself to be an ardent admirer of penmanship; you know my origin, but, alas! you never knew that I could not write. I trembled to reveal my ignorance to you, and hoped by constant attention to the instructions of this gentleman, to pen you a letter worthy of your perusal. I tried, and tried in vain; till in a moment of despair, I asked this person to write a line for me." "Yes, Sir," added the man in the cape, "that was more than a week since; but here is improvement!" and he displayed three or four half-sheets of paper, on which were inscribed, "This is my writing, after receiving ten lessons of Mr. Pothooks." "This is my improvement in fifteen lessons ;" and so on, till the last specimen was almost equal to the performance of the master himself. "But the letter, Sir-to Miss Brown-you asked forgiveness." "Yes, Sir, for my boldness in asking for the loan of two sovereigns to save me from an execution in the Court of Requests." In a month after this event, Emily Brown was introduced to Monsieur Jefferini, as Mrs. Alfred Stokes. One person at the wedding was observed to be conducted from the house in a state of intoxication, and safely packed up in a patent safety cabit was THE MAN IN THE MACKINTOSH CAPE. JANNETJE TER BEEK. "Laat my noo-it gelukkig zyn, zo ik u niet bemin!"-Karel Houbakker. CHAPTER I. A perfect Man of Business. THE Heer Lukas ter Beek was a man of substance both in purse and person. He was sleek and rotund, and without a wrinkle. To him fortune had made the naturally level country of his birth as smooth as a billiardtable, whereon he, no inapt representation of an ivory ball, rolled without obstruction. All the shares he had taken in the lottery of life had turned up capital prizes; and at the age of forty-five he found himself in the possession of a considerable fortune. Ter Beek was by no means a beauty, for his physiognomy was cold and inexpressive. And whatever" speculation" there might be in his mercantile transactions, there was certainly none in his dull gray eyes; yet he contrived to form a matrimonial alliance at a very early age, which, judging from his character, must have been rather an affair of "barter" than affection. This" venture," too, proved as productive as the rest in which he engaged, for, although death deprived him of his partner soon after she had presented him with a daughter, the prudent merchant had taken the precaution to insure the "frail vessel" against the storms of life, and consequently found a consolation for his irreparable loss, by the certain profit he derived therefrom; and morally reflecting on the turpitude of this sublunary world, he came to the encouraging deduction that the 'exchange "was in her favour. cr CHAP. II. His Offspring. The fairest rose Pines will spring and flourish even on a dunghill. buds and blooms on a tree bristling with thorns; and even as it is in the vegetable, so is it in the animal kingdom. A striking proof of the veracity of this philosophical axiom appeared in the person of Jannetje ter Beek, for, although rather inclined to the plump rotundity of the jufvrouwen, or lasses of the Low Countries, her personal endowments were of the most dazzling and attractive description, notwithstanding the ordinary stock from which she sprang. Neither the natural fog, nor the artificial smoke of her native land, had had the power of dimming the lustre of the red and white so harmoniously mingled in her complexion. Her hair was flaxen, and fell in luxuriant clusters about her shoulders; and her eyes were of that sweet blue which wax-doll makers and their juvenile customers most delight in. Even as a doll of a larger growth, solely possessed of the mechanical power of opening and shutting her eyes, Jannetje must have excited universal admiration; but those who enjoyed the pleasure of her speech, in which there was a sparkling vivacity joined to a winning archness of look and expression, that were perfectly irresistible, seldom failed to be penetrated with the tenderest sentiments. Yes, even the proverbial frigidity of a Dutchman thawed beneath the influence of her smiles; and many a corpulent koopman (merchant), who never told his love, vented both sighs and smoke in one convulsive puff when, seated at her father's board, he beheld Jannetje's lovely head and shoulders appearing at intervals through the dense volumes of smoke-like the bodiless cherub of the painter roosting on a cloud. The phlegmatic Ter Beek was not aware of his daughter's influence, but attributed the good bargains he generally made over his pipe and glass, to the soothing effects of the generous spirit, and the sedative quality of the tobacco. What fallacious conclusions are daily drawn ; one would almost imagine that men, like puppies, were born blind. CHAP. III. A Lover, a Guitar, and a Serenade. Where the warm rains fall, there will the green herbage spring in freshness and beauty and as surely as sunbeams bring forth flowers and butterflies, so will the loveliness of womankind produce love and lovers. This is the immutable law of nature, whose statute books are the hearts of men. The Heer Lukas ter Beek was an enemy to all display and extravagance, and had no taste either for intellectual enjoyments, or the artificial elegancies of life; but in a fit of fondness, superinduced by a lucky "spec" in butters, he was wheedled by Jannetje to purchase a Lust-huis (country-house), with a pretty garden, on the banks of one of the many canals which intersect the land of dams and sluices. It was indeed but a diminutive domaiu; yet, small as it was, it was a perfect autocracy under the sole sway of the gentle Jannetje; and her obedient vassals being limited to the number of two, the government was carried on with facility, and undisputed sway. Katrijn, the old housekeeper, being very thrifty and obedient, and Kato, the house-dog, the most faithful of animals. As for Ter Beek, he was merely a visiter, who never interfered in the domestic arrangements, and was well pleased to enjoy the "otium cum dignitate" of pipe, slippers, and grog, after the toils of the day, without troubling himself with any comment upon his daughter's proceedings. Reading, needlework, or horticulture, agreeably occupied the solitary hours of Jannetje, and improved her taste. She neither knew, nor sighed for the pleasures of company; but, as is the inevitable result with young and ardent minds thrown upon their own resources, she imperceptibly acquired a romantic turn, forming a most delightful world of her own, and peopling it with the spotless creatures of her pure imagination. Occasionally, when important business required the early attendance of Ter Beek, he remained at his residence in town. On one of these evenings of casual absence, Jannetje was playing on the virginals, and ever and anon turning over the leaves of her music-book, singing snatches of songs, apparently very undecided, but really extremely happy in her feelings, for the moon was streaming full into her little chamber, and her thoughts were busied in the most poetical ruminations. As she raised her hands from the keys, she was startled by the sounds of a guitar from without it seemed like the distant echo of the strain she had just ceased playing. Pleased by this novelty, she sat in breathless attention, while her beating heart thrilled, as if it were actually the instrument touched by the musician's hand. After a tantalizing prelude, a sweet and manly voice sang the following tender words :— which, for the Waar schuil ik voor de lonken, Dat my vol vonken Van de liefde sticht? Myn boezem al te fel geraakt, Gevoel ik dat van binnen als een Etna blaakt. Hoe vrolyk zou ik lyen, Als gy schoone waart, Gelyk de byen, Wreede en zoet van aart: Zy kwetzen ons wel onverwacht; Maar geven ook den honing, die de wond verzacht, De pylen van uw oogen, Die verwonden my; Als den honingby: Genees, genees, myn hartewond, Met honingdou, en balzem van uw lieve mond. satisfaction of that laudable curiosity which our fair readers, who are ignorant of the language, must necessarily experience, we have done into the vernacular : Why shrink I from the gaze Of eyes that beam so bright, With glowing flames of love possess'd, An Etna fierce seems burning in my breast. How happy should I be, Wert thou more like the bees, Who, with their cruelty, Have sweetness, too, to please; For though they wound us unawares, They give the honey which the wound repairs. The glances of thine eye Have pierced thy lover through; Then, like the honey-bee, Show thy compassion too; In pity heal my wounded heart, And let thy honied lips the balm impart. "Zonder twyffel hy blaakt in liefde " (Doubtless he is consumed by love), murmured Jannetje to herself, as she rose, with the sole purpose of drawing down the blind, as she thought; but as she did so, she glanced unconsciously upon the canal, and beheld a man enveloped in a cloak, seated in a boat, and rowing from the window. "It is very pretty," continued she, and smiled, as she added, "I wonder whether the minstrel is so? But, alas! song-birds are not generally famed for their beauty; and after all he may be both old and ugly. Of what importance is it to me? I dare say, now, that he is some idler, attracted |