sort of liking to possess the house where he had been a child, a decided feeling that it was a respectable and also touching and refreshing thing to do. And finding that the house was in good condition, he bought it, and sent in upholsterers and furnishers, and in due course the mansion was all elegance and splendour, as beseemeth a house in such a region. Mr. Savernake and his wife moved into the new abode; and, as early as possible, he gave a great ostentatious dinner to more people than could well sit down. It was the house-warming.
The dinner went off with éclat, and everything was admired; and at the proper time the proper friend of the family rose to say the proper thing about congratulations to their kind host and hostess, and long might they live to enjoy the beautiful house in which, for the first time, they had dispensed their general hospitality. Mr. Savernake rose in full swagger. He was not a man of many words, but his Heart was in the Right Place. (That it is.) He was very thankful to them all for coming—he could not give them such splendid repasts as they enjoyed at home—(Oh!) but they had a hearty welcome, and he hoped that he should often and often see them again with their legs under his mahogany. (Applause) Allusion had been made by his kind friend to the house. It had been called beautiful. It was well enough; and he didn’t say that he wasn’t well lodged. But that was not the thing. Why he loved the house—why it was dear to him, from kitchen to roof, was that it had been the home of his boyhood. Yes, 45, Atherton Street, had been his childhood’s home. He knew every room, he might say every board in every floor, and every knot in every board. In this house a good father’s counsels had often been given him; in this sacred house—in a spot he had visited—he was not ashamed to tell them—just before they came, a dear mother’s tears had flowed over him. (Sensation.) The very number of the house had been blessed to him; 45 had been a lucky number many a time and oft. He was once more at home —he felt that every wall and rafter seemed to honour and love him, and—and—his Heart was in the Right Place. And God bless them all.
He sat down amid great enthusiasm; but what is life?
At the last moment, and to fill a vacant chair, he had asked in an old gentleman of large proportions, but larger self-esteem, he having filled divers parochial offices in the district in which they stood. The old gentleman was offended at being thus asked, but came and eat his dinner, and this was the return he made.
When the applause had subsided, and the words “interesting. ”and “ touching ”and “manly,” were buzzing about, as usual, the old gentleman— his name was Hepper—rose, and begged silence. His imposing appearance, and white hair, prejudiced everybody in his favour, and all looked out for a new sensation. They got one.
“Nobody,” said Mr. Hepper, in the most distinct voice, while servants at the open door listened, as well as the guests,—“nobody can feel more than I do the beauty of what has fallen from our worthy host. To come back to the home of our childhood a rich and good man is the noblest event of life. (Great applause.) I wish I had known our worthy host a little earlier. (“Make up for it,” from Mr. Savernake.) I should like to have known him when he was buying this house. (Attention.) Because—and as I was at the time the collector of rates for the street, I knew all about it-—exactly six years ago, all the houses in the street were new numbered, and this, which is now 45, was, when our host was a boy, 57. I dare say he was never in this house till he bought it. However, the sentiment is the same, and does him the highest honour.”
A good man struggling with a misfortune is a sight dear to the gods. As Mr. Savernake always stated that he was a good man, anyhow, there must have been much enjoyment that night upon Olympus. There was very little in 45, Atherton Street.
Shirley Brooks.
AUTUMN EVEN-SONG.
The long cloud edged with streaming gray,
Soars from the west;
The red leaf mounts with it away,
Showing the nest
A blot among the branches bare:
There is a cry of outcasts in the air.
Swift little breezes, darting chill,
Pant down the lake;
A crow files from the yellow hill,
And in its wake
A baffled line of labouring rooks:
A purple bow the shadowless river looks.
Pale on the panes of the old hall
Gleams the lone space
Between the sunset and the squall;
And on its face
Mournfully glimmers to the last:
Great oaks grow mighty minstrels in the blast.
Pale the rain-rutted roadways shine
In the green light
Behind the cedar and the pine:
Come, thundering night!
Blacken broad earth with hoards of storm:
For me you valley-cottage beckons warm.
George Meredith.
THE FIRST PLAY-HOUSE.
We must go back two hundred and eighty odd years. It is not easy to understand what London was then; but we must endeavour to get a rough notion of it into our heads, in order to be able to follow the particulars of this Story of the First Play-House.
Let us start from the Postern Gate which stands at the north-western corner of the Tower moat, looking out obliquely upon a wild tenter-ground, in one angle of which stands the Minories Cross. Remember, we are now in the year 1575, and that very few years have elapsed since the Queen, who at this time occupies the throne, was a prisoner in these royal dungeons. In the interval, as great changes have taken place in the streets of London, as in the art of portrait-painting, which her Majesty has brought into fashion. Before the
Queen’s time we had no such wonderful hands and