père would sit for hours, drawing inex- archæology-nothing came amiss to one haustibly upon his mind and memory for who was as universal in knowledge as their entertainment; or submitting to cosmopolitan in interest. And all was them the sketch he was compiling of the thrown off with the same genial ease life and works of the never-forgotten Bal- which made him the man most valued as lanche: sure of giving pleasure to the a correspondent, most fascinating in a one, if by any means he could interest the tête-à-tête, most sought in society. His declining powers of the other. In July facility of composition was almost unex1848, as our editress expresses herself, ampled in the annals of authorship, and "M. Châteaubriand acheva de mourir." the more so as combined with habits of Jean-Jacques, as representative both of thoroughness in all he undertook. He Madame Récamier and the French Acad- wrote a chapter of a novel in a night-he emy, presided at the solemn and pictur- versified an article on Tocqueville's work esque occasion, when, with all the pomp which he had not time to write in prose. of the Roman ceremonial, the remains of His six volumes of Roman history, while the illustrious writer were deposited, by presenting a mine of knowledge from his expressed wish, in the hollow of a rock which hand-book makers will ever dig, have on the coast of St. Malo, his native place. a flow of style seldom combined, except in On his return to Paris redoubling his the highest names, with the same depth of tender care of one who, as she owned, erudition. These, and his careful contrionly held "à la vie du cœur" by him butions to the history of various literahe accepted the librarianship of the tures, will live, while the repute of his Bibliothèque Mazarin at the Institute, in lighter works, the chief charm of which consisted in their being so like his own conversation, is already passing away with the contemporaries who enjoyed them. Tocqueville's eulogy to the Comte de Circourt on the charm of Ampère's society is significant: "Le moindre mérite de cet auteur-là est celui d'écrire." order to be nearer her. But we must close this touching and unique chapter. Madame Récamier died of cholera in May 1849. Jean-Jacques says little for himself at this time, but the letters from friends of all kinds show the respect with which this now broken tie had been viewed. M. Thiers writes: "I sympathize strongly with your sorrow, which must be profound. Car je sais que Madame Récamier était pour vous toute votre famille. At our age these griefs are bitter. There is no longer that infinite future before us in which we place so many things when we are young. But let us do like good soldiers, who close their ranks the more as each comrade falls." Jean-Jacques did press closer to his comrades after a time; but at first he fled from Paris and them. He went to Spain; he came to England; he crossed to America, and traversed the great continent from north to south, and he worked as those work who have little else left to do. A few words must be said on the literary labours by which he is known, and which are all that heart, ability, industry, and ardour could produce from one of whom Alexis de Tocqueville said that he had the rare privilege of taking interest in all things, and of regarding with equal curiosity, "tantôt littéraire, tantôt savante, tout ce qui vient de l'homme." To this faculty is owing the multifariousness of what he undertook. Histories, romances, plays, travels, biographies, poetry, journalism the lightest sallies of epigrammatic wit, the driest researches of VOL. XIII. 674 LIVING AGE. de Here the attempt to describe the career and character of this remarkable man must come to an end. The Penates of friendly hearths which he had worshipped all his life never forsook him. Madame Récamier was dead, and Alexis Tocqueville followed ten years later; but the sympathies and consolations of friendship, which were to him as the breath of life, were still renewed. We have instanced his passion for the beautiful Juliette, and his affection for the great historian, as the first and second epochs of his life. A third epoch and a third group of friends were granted to him in the family of the gifted and amiable editress of these volumes. The follies of youth and the ambitions of maturer age were now over, and what the intimacy of this exemplary home circle supplied him with, was best suited for one nearing the end of life's pilgrimage. The lingering illness, the piety, and the death of M. and Mme. Cheuvreux's only child and daughter, "allured to brighter worlds and led the way;" and this chapter, on which we can only thus passingly touch, is so far of a higher order of interest as the joys and sorrows in which he now took part were of a purer and more sacred kind. It is no slight tribute to Madame Cheuvreux-and it is one she will most appreciate to say that, "I am so sorry to take you home, Captain Blount. I am so ashamed. One of the boys might" — and poor Beatrix tries to gulp down her mortification, but cannot finish the sentence. as the generous heart of Jean-Jacques quite the right thing, and the boys breathe From Blackwood's Magazine. BEE OR BEATRIX. PART II. BUT when the time comes, Bee declares that she will go alone. In the dead silence and downcast eyes with which her father's proposition was received, she read the blow he was inflicting. She is quite able to walk, she knows the way, and she will be as safe in keeping to the track as if in their own grounds. "I really think she may. What do you say, Arthur? Everybody is out on the hill with us, and we are all up above. That is to say, if you are sure you won't be frightened or anything, Betty; and mind you keep to the track. Don't let mamma put the blame on me if any harm comes to you. It is your own fault if anything happens." "Let me see Miss Graeme home." Every one stares at Harry, Miss Graeme herself included. Every one laughs at the idea. It is his hunt. He is the stranger, the guest, the whole thing has been got up for him, and in his heart Harry knows himself that he ought not to be the one. But what is to be done? Arthur will not offer, and the boys each think the other should go. Kind Sir Charles looks weakly at his offspring, sympathizing, and sorely perplexed. She cannot walk with a keeper, and altogether the poor child is made to feel that she is terribly in the way. Harry cannot stand it. "After all, sir, I have really had enough. I shall be better up to it another day; but standing so long is apt to give one the cramp. Let me be the escort." Of course, if he puts it upon that, there is nothing more to be said. Arthur tries to look as if he thought it It is evident that she has not been taken in by his flimsy attempt at fiction. Harry regards her kindly, laughs it off, and begins to talk of other things. Bee is most anxious to be companionable; she will do all she can to compensate him for the loss of his afternoon's sport; she points out the beauties of the walk, has tales to tell of childish exploits, curiosities to point out; and to all he says in reply, she listens with the most flattering and submissive attention. The walk will soon be over, but there is one more stone dyke in the way. "It is rather a worse one than usual," says Blount, shaking the stones, that totter when he touches them; "they are lying loose along the top, without an attempt at being fixed. We must try to find a better place lower down." "It will be just as bad there- rather worse, in fact; it only goes down to the burn. I think," says Bee, modestly, "you have not fired off your second barrel, Captain Blount; would you put the gun over first?" He laughs. "That is the advantage of a breech-loader. Look here, Miss Graeme; satisfy yourself that both muzzles are empty. See, we turn it down so, take out the cartridge, and combine safety with economy. The cartridge will do again." She murmurs something about having always heard her father fire off his gun as he approached the house, and feels that she has been officious; but he reassures her. "Sir Charles sticks to the old muzzleloader. You were quite right, indeed. Half the gun-accidents take place through scrambling over a fence with a loaded gun. The twigs catch, or something." He is helping her over, and a shower of stones topples after them. "You seem to have a superfluity of these walls about here? "Charlie and I had to get over seventeen the other day." "Seventeen! Where had you been?" "He was fishing all along there, and I went with him, as I wanted to visit a blind man who lives at the back of that hill. It is too far to go by the road, at least to walk, and we had a delightful expedition." "Don't you fish?" "Oh yes, but not these pools; I can't get at them. I fish a burn nearer home." Blount draws her on, and the unsuspecting creature lays bare before him all the tenor of her simple life. They go laughing and chatting along, and by the time they reach the hall-door they have become quite friends. Lady Graeme, just come in from her drive, wonders much to hear Bee's voice underneath the windows, and Bee's merry laugh as the door opens. What can have brought them all home at this time of day? No accident, of course, or Bee would not be laughing; but it is odd. Still more does she wonder when Harry Blount alone follows Beatrix into the room. Bee had had enough of the hunt, was tired, and papa thought she had better come home. She need not alarm her mother by saying anything about the faintness at present. "Could none of your brothers have brought you?"- very gravely asked. Of course they could. Of course Arthur was selfish, and the boys thoughtless, but she would fain screen them if she can. Captain Blount is sailing very near the wind in his efforts to come to the rescue, but it is a bad business; and at last Bee breaks out, unable to control herself any longer, for she sees that both Harry and she are under suspicion. 66 Mamma, the truth was, that none of them would come; but Captain Blount was so good-natured- I am sure I could have come alone," cries the poor culprit, with almost a sob. "I could not bear to bring him." The maternal brow clears. "Now I understand, my dear. It was very unfortunate, and we are both very much obliged to Captain Blount. It would have been most improper, quite dangerous for you to have attempted walking home alone; the wild cattle, horses, even the dogs, are sometimes vicious. I can't think how your father could have proposed such a thing." "It was I who proposed it; papa did not know what to do." Lady Graeme will take care it does not happen again; and, aloud, wonders at Sir Charles, but in her heart knows of old how little there is to wonder at. The one she really is wroth with is Arthur. To send his sister home with a stranger! To let a guest do what should have been his part! To force his friend to give up his amusement instead of giving it up himself! "I feel ashamed of my sons," says the good lady; "and I hope they will at least have the grace to be ashamed of themselves." Then she jerks the bell with emphasis, and orders up tea. Bet The great wood-fire is sparkling and crackling cheerily on the hearth, and as the dusk rapidly draws on, its lambent reflections play and dance over the old-fashioned furniture, and throw gleams of light to the farthest corners of the room. ty, making tea with her hat and jacket thrown off, her hair all straying over her forehead, and the glow which the walk home has brought back to her cheek illuminating her eyes also, is so different a creature from the very fine young lady in her tinsel and gewgaws who presided there the evening before, that Harry has quite forgotten the first picture in the second. He is sitting in the chimney-corner himself; Lady Graeme is on the sofa with her little table beside her, her bonnetstrings untied, and her shawl loosened at the throat; while Miss Williams, prim and starched, draws in her chair to the teatable. Bee goes the round, waiting on them all, in spite of Harry's faint protests, and still feebler movements. He looks up laughing in her face, and she orders him to sit still, and they understand each other perfectly. Harry begins to think that he had not the worst of the bargain in coming home; it really was rather slow in the wood till that one moment when the little buck came in sight; and who could say that he would have knocked over another as clean and fair? Who could have promised him another shot at all? Besides which, he is conscious of his self-sacrifice, the women have openly acknowledged it, and he knows that even the boys and the sportsmen were not more blinded than they chose to be. “May I have a little, a very little more?" Of course he may - there is plenty. If there were not, some one else might go without - Arthur, for instance- she will not be particular in keeping anything for him, you may be sure. 788 Her mother's cup comes back likewise. Lady Graeme will have another, or half another, if Bee can promise that it will be quite as good as the last; and then Miss Williams follows suit; lastly, the teamaker drains the pot on her own account, and with grim satisfaction doubles up the last thin slice of brown bread-and-butter. They can ring for more if they want it. As this tray was only supposed to be served up for the two elderly ladies' modest refreshment, the little minx knows that she can shelter herself; so she takes up her supplies, comes away from the teatable, and gets into the other corner of the fireplace with the utmost content. "How dark it is growing! I hope they have stopped by this time!" exclaimed Lady Graeme, anxiously. Captain Blount looks at his watch. "They were to stop at half-past four. It is nearly five now." Not five yet! Duncan must have brought tea earlier than usual. "Because you rang for it, mother. We always get earlier and earlier at this seaI was quite ready for mine." "So you ought; you had no luncheon." Pray, how does he know what she had? Bee assures him that she did have luncheon. son. "What! How much?" She had some. He shakes his head at her, she shakes hers back at him; the other two cannot help laughing at them. "If I were to tell Lady Graeme He is not going to tell tales, but she thinks he is, and gives him such a frown, turning her face aside to do so, as chills poor Harry's veins. He stops short, of course; then upsets his empty cup on the rug to account for it, and wonders what she meant? frown it was! What a That girl has a notion of keeping people in order. The subject must be changed, evidently; and so, "How much sooner does it become dark here than in the south, should you say?" inquires Captain Blount. "An hour, is it not, mamma? But this is the darkest day we have had. Of course it is; this is the 21st, the shortest day." 66 You "Glorious December weather! should have been with us to-day, Graeme; such a sight from the hill Only you were talking so fast to that you had no time to look at it.' Oho, Miss Betty! a little of the Beatrix peeped out then. papa pany; he never met any one so charming, Well, Sir Charles is delightful comhe—and in the middle of the pinegyric the object of it pokes his head in at the window. did not expect us back so soon, eh, Janet? "Well, here we are, here we are! You No more sport though, Blount. At least down that wounded buck, however. He Arthur and I had none; the boys ran did not go far. That makes four in all; two to me, and one to each of you. We'll have them brought round for mamma to see.” Apparently he forgets that some one Bee remains behind, and mamma cheerelse may not care for the spectacle; but fully acquiesces, leaves her comfortable to take all the interest she can in the accorner, and goes out into the chilly air, counts of the chase, and hear her lord descant upon the spoil. Arthur comes into the drawing-room of himself; which state of feeling is not rather sulky, and inclined to be ashamed improved by finding the other two so comfortably ensconced by the fire, and nothing but empty cups standing about. where else there would have been a secThere never was such a house! Anyond tea waiting! The room is like an oven with that great furnace of a fire! bell with a peal that will be instantly recWhy did not Bee-and he jangles the ognized as his below stairs - why did she not give proper orders? the door opens, and the second tea is triNo thanks to Bee; but at this moment umphantly displayed by Duncan. Duncan had heard the party returning would want. afar off, and guessed what the captain The stranger should see that everything was done in style at Castle Graeme. Alas! it is lost on Harry; he only feels ting down instead of fuming about the the relief of Arthur's silence, and his sitroom. Bee wonders why it is always before that the same effort, otherwise directed, sometimes vaguely provoked with the Thus Betty has been so unaffectedly charming throughout the day, that it is a sad pity she resolves upon being so in the evening. She is asked to sing, and complies; but, with much turning over of her portfolio, chooses an Italian air, suitable for a powerful and accomplished soprano. can hardly proceed, but finds it very pleasant flattery nevertheless. More, more, they must have more. He is to go on till they tell him to stop. His young tyrants grow quite clamorous between whiles, but instantly hush, and hold their breaths during the performance. Bee's voice is low, and naturally sweet, Arthur regards the group with favour. and the boys like to hear it. One of them He asked for the song, and it is his friend has eagerly demanded Huntingtower," "who is showing off so finely; but poor and another begs for the pathetic "When Bee is altogether out in the cold. we two parted;" but she prefers "La Fioraja," and accordingly there is a dead silence at the close, broken only by the most lukewarm of murmurs from Captain Blount. 66 Harry's correct ear is vexed by the performance, and Lady Graeme would rather have seen Beatrix do as her brothers asked her. "Now, old fellow, it is your turn." Oh, if Captain Blount will! She was only turning over the pages, had not fixed on anything, but perhaps she could play his accompaniment? "Not a bit of it; he plays his own. Go ahead, Harry. Don't be modest, Harry. Give us Bid me - Bid me What is it again?" "Bid me discourse?" tries old-fashioned Miss Williams, whom no amount of bidding in that direction would have the slightest effect upon. 66 Ay, that's it. Bid me discourse upon the lady, you know, Harry. Blue and violet eyes, and all the rest of it." Harry knows well enough, sits down, and begins to troll out in a rich easy bari Bid me not the lady praise, Go and find a maiden free, At the close each heaves a deep sigh, and Tom breaks out with enthusiasm, "That was jolly!" Then they relapse into silence again, waiting for more, and so does every one else in the room. What arms the soldier for the field? sings Harry melodiously 'Tis love impels him on, No one wants any more "La Fioraja's;" and though Captain Blount does insist on getting off the music-stool at last, and politely begs that she will take his place, she can hardly comply with a request so little urgent. For the present, at all events, her star has set with the brotherhood. They only await her negative, and again seize their victim. Harry good-naturedly racks his brains for old English, Scotch, and Irish ditties, to please them, till they are reluctantly forced off to bed. "Thank you, sir," says little Charlie, putting out his hand; on which the other "Thank you, sir," likewise. "And I say, you'll give us some more to-morrow, won't you?" adds Tom. two say, "That was really very nice!" Who would have believed it possible? There is the old laird actually wide-awake in his big arm-chair, and with folded hands listening all the time. "Hum, hum, hum, hum," he echoes. He used to sing himself in his young days. Lady Graeme and Miss Williams are both pleasantly grateful. Arthur applauds graciously. Bee is the only one who has nothing to say, no remark to make. She is very deeply engaged with her embroidery, and finds the wools so difficult to shade by candle-light, that she has no eyes for anything beyond them. Harry's reflections afterwards: "She was put out, I suppose: but I can't help murdered, and that shake! Girls ought it. I can't stand hearing those things and I doubt if she could accomplish that. never to attempt anything beyond a ballad, But I am afraid I was rather bad to her." Bee's reflections: "I never, never will! After all the hours I have spent over it, and I thought I had got it right at last. Such an exhibition! If I had only done as the boys wanted! I know they hate that thing, and mamma said she was quite For truest love with courage ever is united. tired of hearing it over and over in the Their rapt attention, their wonder- next room. How beautifully he sings! stricken faces so close to his! The singer | Oh dear!" By love his fields are wor, |