documents, possessed more of this wealth than their lords, who had probably squandered while their consorts saved. In the ladies' wills, the gold and silver plate divided among children, kinsmen, friends, the world, and the church, would in each case have freighted an argosy. The smallest article had its specified recipient: nothing was forgotten. The grandmother of Guy Faux left to that lively lad, when he was of an age to be playing in front of the office of his father, the York Proctor, her silver whistle. That graceless scamp, no doubt, made it ring shrilly as he used to run through Micklegate Bar, to and from school, situate near that aptlynamed locality, Knavesmire!

But while ladies of rank possessed a wealth which might have dazzled the eyes of Aladdin soon after he had issued from that wonderful cave, there were queens to be met with who had scarcely one poor souvenir whereby a surviving friend or lover might cherish her memory. It is very seldom that a will has anything in it that is touching or solemn-anything that is pathetic. Often they have aroused much that is antipathetic to the devisor; but at the very best, they are of too business-like a character to exercise tender influences over the feelings. One exception to this is in the case of that hapless widowed Queen of Edward IV., who had been so happy a girl as plain Elizabeth Woodville, and so happy an ordinary, and ordinary man's, wife, as Elizabeth Gray. When King Edward met her beneath the chesnuts, and, for sudden love of her, broke his faith to another woman, it was a luckless moment for the young beauty, dazzled by the prospect of a crown. The history of her children is a whole cluster of romances: boys murdered-girls wearing crowns or coronets; some ascending thrones, and others descending below Maids of Honour. In special allusion to the daughter who married Henry VII., poor un-queened Elizabeth writes:"Since I have no worldly goods to do the queen's grace, my dearest daughter, a pleasure with, neither to reward any of my children according to my heart and mind, I beseech Almighty God to bless her Grace, with all her noble issue, and with as good heart and mind as is to me possible,” (Mark that gentle wail of anguish !) “I give her Grace my blessing, and all the foresaid my children. I will that such small stuff and goods that I have, be disposed truly in the contentation of my debts, and for the health of my soul, as far as they will extend." Poor lady! she had little to leave but small debts and countless blessings: not so much as a silver whistle for that learned and frail little grandson of hers, that Dieudonné of his time, the princely Arthur.

In strong contrast with the above are the wills of proud ladies who shower cash, plate, and furniture on their grand-daughters, and honestly avow that it is for the purpose of more readily getting them married. Even serving-maids are not forgotten in this respect, when fidelity has been the rule of their service. A couple or so of "Tyrtene gowns left to these honest abigails.

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Although it does not peculiarly distinguish the will of the middle-age

woman, the custom being common to nearly all, I may aptly notice that the makers of bequests hit upon an excellent summary measure to obviate all waste of property at the hands of lawyers, by declaring that any legatee venturing to dispute any clause of the will should be shut out from profiting by any bequest made in his favour.

But it is time that I should check this gossip, and make way for more agreeable and more instructive talkers. I will only add a word in connection with the women of a more recent period than that generally treated of in this paper, as a contrast to preceding illustrations.

We have a pleasant indication of the power of music as a refiner of character, in a remark made by Medley, in Etherege's "Man of Mode." The ladies of fashion, at the end of the seventeenth and at the beginning of the eighteenth century, were not remarkable for great delicacy. We may remember how the old lady told Sir Walter Scott that she had been horrified by reading a page or two of a play by Afra Behn, which she had read over and over again, when a girl, without being shocked at all. No doubt of it. When her mother, and her grandmother before her, were girls, ladies were seen at such plays as Ravenscroft's coarse five-act farces, or Wycherley's more sparkling, but more dangerous comedies. The bad character of these pieces, made known on the first night, did not deter them from attending subsequent representations. They were to be seen in the boxes, laughing at the men kissing one another, firing sarcasms at Fops' Corner, or talking loudly to the occupants of the Wits' benches. Now and then, they would. clap their fans to their faces, as the mocking gentlemen would do, with the ends of their exactly-curled periwigs, showing their want of modesty, as the censorious lady remarks, in the "Plain Dealer," by exhibiting it publicly in a play-house. Nevertheless, even the ladies who were wont to go from the Mulberry Gardens to the New Exchange, and from the New Exchange, where they bought some toy or another to wile away the time with in the Theatre, to the Theatre itself,-even these were offended by a licence which the law itself could not altogether suppress. It is in allusion to this that Etherege's gentleman remarks, "What, you are of the number of ladies whose ears are grown so delicate since our Operas; you can be charmed with nothing but Flute doux and French Hoboys! Dr. Watts recommends as a better remedy than a course of operas, a little reading and writing, with some knowledge of figures, and a decent acquaintance with spelling, which last, whatever may be said of the others, was not universally attended to, since ladies are spoken of, long after this, who loved their love with an F., because he was a Fysician; or with a G., because he was named "a Gustus."

From one defect I had thought the ladies of the last century entirely free; but I have now before me a description of our great-great grandmothers, by an anonymous German author (1735), who finishes his picture with an accessory which I did not expect to find there. "The English woman," he says, "is slender, but well grown; fair in feature, captivating,

addicted to French fashions, and much in love with liberty and gallantry. She readily contests for mastery with the men, and hence the proverb that England is the paradise of women.' They are not prudish in conversation, particularly with strangers, with whom they are ever ready to smoke a cheerful pipe!" Perhaps this last touch is as untrue as that now told of our ladies by third-rate French feuilletonists, who get first-rate French witnesses to support the lie, namely, that English peeresses, among other little weaknesses, have a decided inclination to spend their time in running up scores at gin-palaces! This allusion to our peeresses recalls to my memory the circumstance, mentioned by Olmstede, of an American lady in this country, who wished to buy a mediæval castle, and set up in the peerage line with her husband! "Mr. and Mrs. Clayborne," says Mr. Olmstede-in his "Journey in the Back Country,"-" made so many friends among the people of quality, the lady declared she didn't care if they always stayed on here." In fact, she really wanted Mr. Clayborne to buy one of the castles and be a nobleman himself. "But he wouldn't," says she, "he's such a strong democrat, you know." It was the MiddleAge dignity that attracted the democrat's wife!

J. DORAN.

TWILIGHT DREAMS.

THE shadows were dancing, waving—
While the firelight's flickering gleams
Lit up those two still faces;

Dreaming their twilight dreams.

The dreams of an aged woman

And a young girl, side by side:

Age in its calm resignation;

Youth in its confident pride.

Forth to what comes so quickly

Back to what fled so fast :

One divining her future

One regretting her past.

Yet, as I gazed and watched them,

By the firelight's glancing flame,

I saw the two dreams they were dreaming-
And lo! they were both the same.

ADELAIDE A. PROCTER.

THE LITTLE ONES.

"BACHELORS' WIVES!" That is an old saying. It is what we single men are always met with, when we venture to express an opinion on the way we should manage Mrs. Henpecker, who leads her poor husband such a life. And, of course, we are told it is "a proverb." As if proverbial philosophy were not very often proverbial folly, and these "saws" two-edged quality which, however desirable in a sword, is no recommendation in a domestic implement.

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But hard as the framers and quoters of this notable proverb are upon our wife-education imaginary, they yet spare that tender nook in our hearts which is reserved for the Little Ones.

There is no savage saying about "Bachelors' children."

I am perfectly aware that many will laugh at me for this notion of bachelors loving children. But as I hold laughter to be always healthy, if not always rational, I wish well to their lungs.

To be sure, some bachelors (for the most part, though, too young to be set down as such) are very ill at ease in the presence of children. I remember, when my friend Du Brisay was persuaded to be sponsor to his collegeservant's child, he was very nervous. And afterwards, when he nursed it to keep up the character, and gave it his watch to play with, his face, as he saw that baby proceed to put the chronometer into her mouth, and thence down her throat, was a study for Le Brun, or any author of a book of Passions. It was a mixture of Fear, Despair, Astonishment, Indignation, and Helplessness, that would puzzle the best painter in the world, including William Hogarth—who is out of it, by the bye. Then papas and mammas are to blame for the shyness of their single male friends. They force the inclination of the children—and the bachelors see it, and feel uncomfortable. When "Emily, my dear," is told to "go and speak to that nice gentleman and kiss him," Emily naturally does so with a protest, which is quite evident to the nice gentleman. He has been told sometimes to say something funny, and he knows how difficult it is to say even "How d'ye do" to order. As for kissing a stranger, he is not accustomed to that command; but a diffidence in the toes of his boots and the points of his gloves, at the very idea, creates a sympathy for Emily.

So, I repeat, bachelors are very fond of children. If they have an outward coldness to the Little Ones, it is because their heart is so warm to them. And we know the truest believers are those who profess least-and the fondest lovers those who are most silent on the subject.

Bachelors' hearts are, for the most part-little.as the world may imagine it-modest cemeteries, wherein are entombed, how many happy dreams-unfulfilled; how many bright visions-never realized, that we ought to deal with-ah, so tenderly!

For myself, my private Kensal Green records some burials. Yet I am

I have not found more than a dozen

not an old bachelor. -well! light hairs, in my whiskers; and the-shall I call it "parting?"—at the top of the back of my head is not very wide! I anticipate-knowing the weakness of man and the power of the other sex-a large increase in my memorialtumuli before I come to a wig.

It is, probably, from a lingering liking for a sex, individuals of which have raised those green hillocks in the cemeteries aforesaid, that bachelors show such an especial failing for the girls among the Little Ones.

Oh, women! women! You do so much in the way of cenotaphs for those retired spots-possibly by your misfortunes, not improbably by your faults.

The first peep I ever had into one of these burial-places, years ago,

was on this wise.

Then I believed that Damon and Pythias could only have begun such a friendship as theirs at school. (Damon passed me, Pythias, in Regent Street without even a nod, the day before yesterday). Then I believed in cheap kid gloves, foreign cigars retail at twopence, the Arabian Nights, and the constancy of women in general; and especially, and in particular, of Arabella, now Mrs.. (That blank does not do duty for the name of the author of this paper). It was concerning this lady that I was opening my heart to a dear friend and senior, when I felt the flow checked by his coldness, and want of appreciation of the love and constancy which I was prepared to insure heavily to last through my next quarter's absence.

"Don't you," said I-(for I read novels, and he had given me a couple of glasses of wine)-" don't you believe in the Affection of Woman ?" "Yes, I do," he answered-"I once had a mother."

Which answer, at the time, I ruled to be unintelligible, and not to the point. I understand it now.

Mind you, dear ladies, I don't mean to say all men have the bitter experience of this one. But if some do-why-oh, you gentle and irresistible creatures, who can say a word against you? I can't, I protest. And then, this man was not successful; and success, with its representative, is a consideration-call it a minor one if you like. I once knew a very decayed affection remarkably strengthened by a handsome legacy which fell to its object.

Here then, in my poor friend's breast, was a cemetery, wherein were many stones engraven,—not with the usual laudatory epitaphs, or he had never culled that philosophy from them. Yet he loved children, and girls especially, with a large and untiring love. Weary of much in the world, of them he was never weary-" was "—ah! me, for that præterite tense!

For myself, I adore the Little Ones. And they know it, recognizing some Freemasonry of which I am not conscious, but which they perceive.

Still, though I have an infinite affection for boys, they are not so