the state of large cities, I had arrived at the conviction, that the insalubrity, the vice and misery that prevail among the more abject classes, are traceable, in a great measure, to that inveterately wrong system of house construction which consists in narrow courts and alleys branching from the main thoroughfares. I felt that if I could possibly obliterate by legislation the hideous resorts in these quarters, a good deed would be done. Hence, with the able assistance I received from Mr J. D. Marwick, town-clerk, and a small but faithful band of adherents, the Improvement Act of 1867. It is not for me to pronounce an opinion concerning this municipal measure. The other day, taking up a London newspaper designated Land, I observed the following statement: 'No fewer than two thousand eight hundred unwholesome houses have been pulled down in Edinburgh since 1867, and over half a million have been spent since that year in city improvements. In 1863, the death-rate was twenty-six per thousand per annum; now it is twenty per thousand.'

One of the duties of the Lord Provost, as is well known, is that of ceremoniously delivering a burgess ticket to distinguished strangers to whom the Magistrates and Council have voted the freedom of the city. It fell to my lot during my period of office to present this token of citizenship to several persons of eminence; among others to Lord Napier of Magdala; Mr John Bright, M.P.; and Mr Disraeli, then Chancellor of the Exchequer. The presentation to Mr Disraeli took place on the 30th October 1867, in the presence of a very large concourse of citizens. On the previous day, he was entertained at a public banquet; on which occasion, in proposing the health of the Magistrates and good wishes to the city generally, Mr Disraeli was pleased to refer in terms so eulogistic to the literary operations in which I had been concerned, that I shrink from copying them from the newspapers of the day in which they appeared.

The Lord Provost of Edinburgh happens to be an ex-officio member of the Commission of Northern Lighthouses, a body invested with the duty of managing all the lighthouses on the seacoast of Scotland and Isle of Man. The Commissioners own a powerful and well-equipped steamer called the Pharos, employed on matters connected with the service; and in which a select number of them make an excursion annually, with a view to inspection of a certain number of the lighthouses. On two occasions, I was elected to be one of the party. My first trip was in 1866, when I was taken along the west coast of Scotland, among the Outer Hebrides, and had an opportunity of visiting that wonderful triumph of art, the Skerryvore lighthouse, rising to the height of a hundred and fifty feet, up which I had the satisfaction of climbing to the top. This is one of my very marked reminiscences.

My second excursion, which took place in 1867, was along the east coast of Scotland, from the Firth of Forth and Bell Rock lighthouses, to the Orkney and Shetland Islands. Independently of the satisfaction of seeing these islands under very advantageous circumstances, I had the pleasure of visiting the scenery described by Sir Walter Scott in his romance of the Pirate; a pleasure somewhat enhanced by the considera

tion that Scott had visited the islands in circumstances not unlike my own; for his voyage was made in company with the Commissioners of the Northern Lighthouses in 1814. By way of amusement, I wrote an account of my two excursions in the Pharos, which appeared in the Journal, and was afterwards embodied in a small volume printed for private circulation.

When, at the end of three years, my period of office expired, I allowed myself to be re-elected for a second period, in order if possible to effect a particular and unexplained purpose. Although authorised by Parliament, the operation of the Improvement Act depended on the decision of the trustees, such being the members of the Town Council. In point of fact, certain new streets through dense and insalubrious neighbourhoods were relinquished, in spite of all my exertions. This I do not cease to regret; for had the Act been carried out in its integrity, the death-rate in the city would, in all likelihood, have now been only fifteen instead of twenty per thousand per annum. A proposed new thoroughfare, now known as Jeffrey Street, was still in doubt when I entered office the second time. I knew there was a party determined, if possible, to prevent the formation of the street. My object, on the contrary, was to employ all reasonable means to get the street formed. I therefore returned to office to battle the point under perhaps improved auspices. The tug of war came off on the 16th of July 1869, when I fortunately carried a motion to form the street in question. Having thus effected my object, I at the end of the first year gave in my resignation, and was glad to retire into private life.

The quietude of later times, interspersed with occasional visits, for the sake of health, to the south of France, was painfully signalised by the decease of my life-long coadjutor. Dr Robert Chambers died at St Andrews in the spring of 1871, from what seemed to be a failure of nature, due to excessive mental exertion, leaving a family to mourn his loss. His Moral and Humorous Essays, written in his early strength and power of observation, gave a certain tone to the Journal, which, with other characteristics, the work, it may be hoped, will steadily maintain. His more elaborate productions were the Domestic Annals of Scotland, 3 vols. 8vo; the Cyclopædia of English Literature, in which he was assisted by Mr Carruthers of Inverness; and the Book of Days, 2 vols. 8vo, the execution of which, and the copious investigations required for it at the British Museum, no doubt contributed to his death-blow.

It

My own literary efforts in recent times have been confined chiefly to essays on subjects of social concern for the Journal. A History of Peeblesshire, a work involving some historical and antiquarian research, was executed by me as a matter of amusement during a residence of two or three summers in the country. appeared in 1864; and was followed by the Memoir of my brother, with autobiographic sketches, 1872. That, so far, closes my account. Obliged, by advanced age, and an infirm state of health, to live almost the life of a recluse, the more active professional duties connected with the conducting of the firm, along with the editing of the Journal, have for some years past been in the hands of my nephew, Mr R. Chambers.

of his face had something of a denial for that haughty bearing. His face was plain; but if you will think of it, you may be surprised to discover how little that matters in your estimate of a man, so long as the expression is one of openness and sweet temper. A young lady looking idly through the open spaces of a Venetian blind, thought well of the young man's presence as he swept up the avenue and alighted at the door. A young lady with wonderful violet eyes, a young lady of very lovely form and exquisite feature and colour, and attired in a morning dress of pure white, with lace ruffles at the wrists and throat. Her brown hair rippled over her shapely head, and grew low upon her broad fair forehead, as in Mr Power's charming bust of Clytie. She stood a minute to look at the new arrival, and recognised him. Then she turned, and for half a minute surveyed herself in a mirror, and finding herself faultless at all points, glided to her own room to add a touch to perfection.

When she descended and met Gerard in the cool dimness of the morning-room, and the baldheaded man said, 'My sister Constance,' the thing seemed ludicrous. Constance, muslin and laces and all, looked as though she might have risen, like Aphrodite, from the white sea-foam, a creature of inspiration, and not of vulgar birth. No such fancies were likely to cluster around her brother, who was decidedly unromantic in aspect.

"You have ridden from the Manor House at Brierham?' she said. "Then I am sure you must be hungry. Shall I order luncheon?'

Now, as a conversational effort, there was nothing especially remarkable in this utterance; but I doubt greatly whether Gerard had, up to that time, ever listened to human speech which so pleased him. It was spoken with a sinile which was delicious to look at. The clear silver voice came through such smiling gates of pearl and coral, such exquisite white teeth, such beautiful lips, that nothing it could say could be commonplace.

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,
Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain his fires,
As old Time makes these decay,
So his love shall waste away.

Is that so? Always? Perhaps it depends on the nature of the lover, with whom, in some rare and happy instances, age cannot wither, nor custom stale the beauties that won his heart in youthful days. Beauty is a good gift, and I will not decry it. With a heart already prepared to yield, as Gerard's was, such rare and supreme charms as those he saw before him were sure of victory. He drank in Constance's words, and unconsciously stored them in his memory; so that years later he recalled the little commonplaces, the nothings of politeness and good-breeding spoken on that happy morning. His eyes were hungry for her face, when

The hour approaches Tam maun ride.' It comes, that inexorable time, when we must go back to harness from the pleasant reaches of the river and idle summer days; or to our own lonely rooms, after the society of our best intimates; or into the wide Inane, which dwells everywhere save where our love may be.

'We shall see you often, I trust, Mr Lumby.' of five-and-fifty, with a dreary bent towards Thus the elder Jolly, a brown and withered man table oratory. Gerard would fain have said something, though no more than a word, to tell Constance how heavily time bade fair to drag with him until he should meet her again; but he restrained himself, and said good-day politely, and no more. So, he loved and rode sands that ran up from the sea to meet their away. The inland-reaching meadows, the yellow sparser grasses, the familiar headlands, and the bay-how dreary they all looked to the new lover's eyes! There was an altogether novel restlessness upon him, and the fiery Rupert felt it, and fretted beneath it.

'Do you want to gallop?' said Gerard. 'Gallop, then!" He laid the reins loose, and the horse shot out across the turf with an exultant bound,

and his master encouraged him with voice and Gerard away from himself. Says the quaint old hand. But not Rupert's noblest pace could carry songster:

I attempt from Love's sickness to fly, but in vain,
For I am myself my own fever and pain.

And Gerard was as near himself as ever when he checked Rupert at the foot of the hill which led homeward.

'Father,' said the love-tormented youth, an hour later, I think I shall run up to town to-morrow. There's nothing doing down here just now. Strange has gone away yachting, and I'm a trifle dull.'

'Very well, my lad,' said Mr Lumby. It was his almost invariable answer to any expression of Gerard's will; and indeed, the father's continual indulgence might have done much damage to a mental constitution less firmly knit than Gerard's.

'I meant to go next week,' said Gerard, and I may as well run up at once. The close of the season is coming; and I shall miss everybody if I delay much longer.'

'Very well, my lad,' said Lumby senior once more. Shall you want any money?'

'No,' said Gerard; I think not. If I should, I'll call on Garling.'

'Very well, my lad,' assented the father once again. Garling was Mr Lumby's right-hand man, the captain of his host. Mr Lumby's father had bred Garling to business, and he had grown up into control side by side with the present head of the firm. He rather looked down on the younger partners; but since they looked up to him, and had been trained to business under him, things went more smoothly than they commonly do when subordinate officers take the upper hand.

Journal

In the evening, after dinner, Gerard strolled from the house, and almost unconsciously walked towards Daffin Head, and sitting down within sight of the Grange, gave himself up to his own thoughts. Two days before, he had felt no especial interest in that eligible and desirable country residence. He had been familiar with it from childhood, and had known the people who had lived in it, a rather low and horsey set, who had come to grief upon the turf a year ago, and had disappeared, unregretted, from the county horizon. He had shunned the place all his life, except for the interchange of mere formal civility; and now it had suddenly become the very heart of his world, and began to draw him to itself, as though it were the seat of the centre of gravitation. He sat and looked at it as the shadows gathered, and in a little while lights began to twinkle in its windows. Through the dusk he strolled on again nearer and nearer by devious ways, until he passed the lodge gates. There was a possibility that young Jolly might be straying thereabouts, and might meet him and ask him in. At that fancy he turned unaccountably shy, and began to dread a chance encounter. Then meeting nobody, he felt disappointed that his dread had not been realised; and in that mood, with a vague hungry feeling superadded, he walked home again.

His youth and health and the open-air life he led were enough to stave off for the present that attendant upon first-love, by doctors called Insomnia. He slept soundly till the morning grew gray; and then he began to dream again of the violet eyes, and awoke restless and disquieted. I think that a manly youngster is always pretty certain to show fight in a matter of this kind, and not to yield himself tamely and without a struggle. It was at this time that Gerard, making brief preparation for his visit to town, resolved against the tenant of his heart, and turned rebel against Love. But the fight was unequal, and he was driven from the field of defiance with all his forces routed. He bought the promised presents for Milly; and surveying the treasures of the jeweller's trays, wished that he had the right to buy up the stock for Constance and lay its riches at her feet. He made calls, and received cards for the last receptions of the dying season, and was dull at all of them. He went to the Opera, and Patti's liquid notes flowed unheard about his ears. He went to see Toole, and yawned dismally through a three-act farce, called a comedy, at which everybody in the house save himself shouted with laughter. Then, at the end of a week, he went home again, and made Milly happy by his presents, and happier still by the promised waltzing lessons.

e:

We become so soon habituated and inured to any new method of feeling or thinking, that in day or two the new way seems as familiar as the old. Gerard might have been in love for a year by the time the Jollies gave their house-warming dinner, such a part of his life had love become. He dressed for that event with extraordinary care, and began to think slightingly of his own personal appearance. Until then, barring that general satisfaction with himself which is common to youth, he had not thought about it at all, and his new opinions abased him. Constance did the

honours of the house like a queen, he thought; and indeed she was the object of much encomium. Such beauty could scarcely go unapproved; and it was the general opinion that Miss Jolly was a very charming addition to the county society. Perhaps it was only natural that the ladies should express less enthusiasm than the men; but they were reserved in their judgments, and refrained from the encomiastic flights in which members of the more impressionable sex indulged. Dinner over, Gerard manoeuvred to be near Constance, and found himself assisted by Milly. There was nothing easier or less embarrassing in the world than to talk to Milly; and that young lady having none of the shyness which Gerard felt for Constance, led the way to where she stood, taking the irresolute lover with her. It was as if a mastiff should have taken shelter behind a pigeon, this big tanned Gerard wavering deviously towards his love under cover of the dainty Milly. Constance once reached, was gracious enough. There was no chance for a confidential talk, for she played hostess, and was busy with her father's guests. Yet may the historic Muse record their converse, if but as a guide to future lovers, as chance conversations are set forth in foreign phrase-books for the help of tourists.

Gerard. Very warm, is it not, Miss Jolly? Constance. Very warm indeed.-My dear Mrs Weatherley, how do you do?

[Mrs Weatherley, after sundry commonplaces, retires.

Gerard. You were not in town at the end of the season?

Constance. No.

Gerard. Everything was very dull. Dullest time I can remember. I was longing to be back in the country all the time.

Constance. Were you indeed?

Gerard (beholding an opportunity for saying something brilliantly complimentary, but not quite knowing what to say, or how to say it). Yes.

Constance. My dear Miss Pennfeather, I have so been wishing to see you.

[Gush. Miss Pennfeather retires. Gerard. I hope you'll excuse me, Miss Jolly, but you must really allow me to congratulate you upon the decorations. I'm rather a judge of that sort of thing, and they're really charming.

Constance. I am so glad you like them." Milly. Aunty is beckoning me with her fan. Will you give me your arm?

[Gerard bows to his idol, and retires. Constance. My dear Agnes, I am charmed to see you. How do you do, Mr Dolby?

[The strains of music overpower all voices. Gerard piloted Milly across the room, and surrendered her to the care of his mother, and then retired to a doorway, against which he lounged, looking on the glittering scene with no lightness of heart. He reviewed the conversation above recorded, and wrote himself down an ass for his share in it. How different he was from Constance! How far removed from her-how, much beneath her! The unprejudiced observer fails to see the truth of all this. Miss Folly was very beautiful, but she was not a Minerva for wisdom. There was nothing in her converse to dazzle us who are not in love with her. Yet let no youth or maiden smile superior over Gerard's