per annum. In 1650, the minister was paid fifteen pounds per annum.

Thomas Swadlin, D.D., minister of this church, and also of St. Botolph's, Aldgate, during the Civil Wars, was a most eloquent preacher, and in consequence was imprisoned, his living was sequestered, his house plundered, and his wife and children were turned out of doors. The expelled minister lived by trading about the suburbs of London, till on the Restoration he was reinstated.

In 1723-4, Mr. Ford, curate of Marylebone, is said on a certain Sunday to have performed the following duty. He married six couples, performed two full services, churched six women, christened thirty-two children, buried thirteen corpses, and read district service over each. To crown all other absurdities and paganisms in old Marylebone Church, there was an arched opening in the centre of the organ, which contained a canvas transparency, copied by Mr. West from one of his own windows in St. George's Chapel, Windsor, and for which flimsy copy he had actually the remarkable self-confidence to charge eight hundred pounds. The parish historian does not forget to mention that, in this picture of the Angels appearing to the Shepherds, one favoured angel was especially conspicuous for having the face of a child, and the thighs of a giant. On both sides of the remarkable organ there were private boxes (called by courtesy pews) which were fitted with chairs and fireplaces. The pulpit and desk were vast pompous piles of carved mahogany. The church seats accommodated between three and four thousand persons. The first parish clerk was a poor knight of Windsor, appointed by the Duke of Portland. There is a tablet in the north wall, dated 1821, to Richard Cosway, the miniature - painter, who was originally an errand-boy at a drawing school in the Strand.

The very close and select vestry of Marylebone was attacked by the Examiner in 1828 and 1829. The chairman was Sir Thomas Baring, and one of the body was Colonel Graham, of the famous house of Fauntleroy and Company, Berners-street. It was complained that they had paid three hundred pounds to Rossi for a bas-relief for the pediment of the new church, which was never used. Also that they had removed a gilt figure of an angel playing a lyre from the organ, and substituted a crown on a cushion. The upholsterer's bill for dressing the church amounted to two

thousand one hundred and fifty pounds. There was a deficiency of twenty-one thousand pounds in the accounts, making an error altogether of forty-seven thousand pounds. The parish was in debt nearly five hundred thousand pounds, when the bill to regulate the vestry went into parliament; the expenses of one grand perambulatory dinner alone amounted to four hundred and eighty-two pounds (the wine costing one hundred and twenty-one pounds, and the ribbons for cockades twenty-three pounds sixteeen shillings and sixpence).

In 1774, houses in High-street, Marylebone, particularly on the west side, continued to be inhabited by families who kept their coaches, and who considered themselves as living in the country. As late as the year 1728, the Daily Journal, October the 15th, announces, first, that "many persons had arrived in London from their country house in Marylebone;" and, secondly, "that the Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole comes to town this day from Chelsea." In 1774, the south and east ends of Queen Anne and Marylebonestreets were unbuilt, and the space consisted only of green fields to the west corner of Tottenham Court-road, and thence to the extreme of High-street, Marylebone Gardens, Marylebone Basin, and another pond called Cockney Ladle. The Rose of Normandy, a public-house on the east side of the High-street of Marylebone, is supposed to be two hundred years old. It was formerly a detached house with a bowlinggreen at the back. In 1659, it is described as surrounded with a brick wall and fruittrees, and being two hundred and four paces long. The bowling-green, one hundred and twelve paces one way, three hundred and eighty-eight another, was double set with fine quickset hedges, cut into battlements. The entrance to the house was by descending steps, as the street had been raised. The house, till lately, preserved its original form; the staircase was old. Williams's Farm stood about a quarter of a mile south. It boasted a room with some stained glass in the windows, and called "Queen Elizabeth's kitchen." Returning and recrossing the New-road, after passing the back of Marylebone Gardens, you came to the north side of Cavendish-square, then enclosed by a dwarf brick wall and a heavy wooden railing. Harley Fields was where Whitfield preached. Kendall's Farm, where Mr. J. T. Smith describes seeing eight or ten immense hay-ricks in a row, stood on

the site of part of Osnaburgh-street, nearly opposite the Green Man, originally called the Farthing Pie House.

suspicion of the intensity of her suffering, or of the havoc it had made. On every one of these summer days her maid dressed her with infinite pains, arranging laces and satins, flowers and jewellery, as carefully

BY THE AUTHOR OF "HESTER'S HISTORY."

CHAPTER XXXVI. PAUL AT CAMLOUGH.

SUMMER was very lovely at Camlough; bowery foliage clothed the mountain-sides with softness, and in the hollow the swards were brilliant with flowers; the castle gleamed out of a mantle of flowering bloom, and terraces girdled it with garlands as of fire caught from the sun. The gardens were hived with sweets, the trees heavy with perfumes that crept up into their boughs. The birds sang in chorus, the sea made a delicate music, and the peaks of the upper mountains crowned the valley with a sapphire crown.

Sir John had ceased to be uneasy about his unruly daughter. His head was full of things more important. He knew she was safe, and that the best way to manage her was to let her have her own way. But the mother could not so easily content herself; had grown more wretched every day that her child stayed away from her, could not sleep at night nor rest by day. Her daughter's indifference was eating away her life. There was no peace about Lady Archbold; her dark hollow eyes still glowed with restless passion; but her haughtiness had broken up into querulousness. She was too feverish for occupation, and always at odds with Time for not quickening his lagging steps. She did not care for reading, for there was no story so interesting or so pitiful to her as her own. She looked into her past life by that envious and fitful light which such minds will fling backward upon joys from which they scorned to draw much sweetness while they lived. Why had the world failed her, having for so many years been her slave? Why had pride ceased to charm, and the only love she coveted been denied her?

Why had poverty threatened to pinch her with unknown wants, while bitterness and reproach must be her only solace in the trial? These were the hard problems which Lady Archbold had got to solve.

She walked with weakly steps about her room, but nobody had any idea that her life was nearly spent. Partly deceived by pride that would not complain, partly by rouge and pearl-powder, Sir John had no

going to court for the first time. On her face there were the red and white that simulated health, and her hair was not suffered to lose the rare blue-black for which the tresses of Lady Archbold had been famed. She thought that when her child returned she should not see the changes which grief and disease had wrought upon her mother. Every day the poor lady sat in a chair filled with cushions, which was placed on the sward at a sunny side of the terrace, a lap-dog on her knees which she did not caress, by her side books which she never opened, fancy-work untouched, and a heap of fresh roses which she crushed to an early death in her hot fingers. Here she sat, watching for one who would not come, and here she still sat when Katherine at length appeared riding out of the distance with Paul by her side. The mother could not bear the sight which she had so passionately longed to see. She fainted in her chair, and had to be carried to her room.

Sir John was right glad to welcome Paul. In his economic fit he had lately denied himself the pleasures of hospitality, being a man who could not choose to invite his friends to bear him company, unless he surprised them with the most costly entertainments. But he was now thoroughly tired of loneliness at Camlough, and pleased to see a man coming to share it. He had heard something of Paul, and felt an interest in him; thought him a fine young fellow, who would be a pleasant kind of neighbour, and likely to work some changes which were needed in the country.

For the first few hours after his arrival, Paul was in high spirits, and won golden opinions from Sir John. He was pleased with all he saw, pleased to get rid of Katherine, and to know that to-morrow he should return without her to Monasterlea. Above all else he was glad to find himself happy. Miss Archbold played hostess, as her mother was not well enough to appear. Her father praised her looks, declaring that the air of Monasterlea had done her good ; did not reproach her, or remark in any way upon the manner in which she had chosen to leave her home. The only thing that clouded Sir John's enjoyment was

Paul's determination to return the next day whence he had come. No persuasion would induce him to think of remaining longer than this one night. The master of Camlough was vexed at his obstinacy, but Katherine said carelessly to her father as she left the dinner-table: "Oh, do not trouble about it; believe me he will stay!" After dinner, Katherine, her father, and Paul set out for a ride about the estate in the long soft light of the early summer evening, so that Paul might make the most of the few hours at Camlough. The excursion was a pleasant one, till on their returning homeward in the dusk, a wildlooking man flung himself suddenly before Paul's horse, throwing up his arms and uttering curses upon the whole race of the Finistons. Paul, always sensitive to the feelings of the poor towards himself, started with a great shock, and urged on his horse past this evil-wisher, who seemed to have started out of the furze-bushes to banish his contentment. Sir John lingered behind, and after some parleying with the wayfarer, rode after his visitor, and rejoined him with a grave countenance.

"I am sorry to hear this," he said; "I have learned from the man that Simon Finiston is evicting the people."

"Is evicting ?" asked Paul, in amazement.

"Yes. This very day; the man says so. His own wife and children are among a hundred who have been turned out, without notice, upon the hills. He was working elsewhere, and has been running all day on his way to Tobereevil. This is bad indeed. I had hoped you might have had influence to prevent such iniquities."

Now this was many weeks before the real evictions took place at Tobereevil; but here was one of the many occasions on which rumour declares that a thing has actually occurred long before it is possible that it can have happened. A whisper of Simon's intention had blown over the mountains, and taken the shape of the tragic story which Sir John now told to Paul.

A dark flush overspread the young man's face, and his head sunk on his breast. He seemed stunned by this news, the truth of which he never thought of doubting, and did not speak again until they arrived at the castle door. By that time the stunned feeling had left him, and his mind was in a flame. This iniquity had been done under his very eyes, and he had not seen it. He had been warned, and had

not striven against the danger. His weakness in temporising with the miser at that last interview now appeared to him as a crime of the darkest hue. His cowardice had wrought the evil, and the sin was on his head.

Not all Sir John's polite efforts, not all Katherine's fascinating attentions, could restore to Paul the good spirits which he had enjoyed only an hour ago. He said good-night to his entertainers while it was yet early, and retired to the chamber which was prepared for him. When there, however, he did not go to rest, but walked feverishly about the room, thinking on his own weakness and on the sad case of the poor, and loading himself with the bitterest reproaches. When at last he flung him. self on his bed he was ill in mind and body; and when morning came the guest was found unable to leave his room.

Thus began a fever which wasted Paul's strength for two or three weeks. Katherine was in great dismay, so much so that her father was surprised in a great degree, never having seen her show feeling for any one before. His concern as to the sick man was increased by this anxiety of his daughter. He agreed to all her arrange ments, sent for the country doctor who attended to his own gout, and who lived on the western side of the Golden Mountain, inviting this gentleman to spend a fortnight at the castle. To the servants and outdoor retainers it was merely said that the guest had got a cold. This was Katherine's wish, so Sir John made a point of it, though he could not understand it; and every care was taken to prevent a rumour of serious illness getting abroad. Katherine's old nurse sat by Paul's bedside night and day, and Katherine herself often stole in and sat motionless behind the curtains, with looks so pale and distracted that no one could have any doubt but that the patient's life was at least as dear to her as her own. And it was understood that Miss Archbold was engaged to Mr. Finiston.

At last, after much suffering, Paul was able to rise from his bed. He was very weak in body and mind, but this was to be expected for a time. Sir John gave him his arm as he walked up and down the lawn, and Katherine waited on him with dainties. But as the invigorating days of early summer passed over his head, and his body became strengthened, it was found very strangely that his mind did not regain its natural balance. His memory was a blank, his thoughts could not fix themselves on

anything for more than an instant. It was some time before Sir John could persuade himself that this failure of mental powers was so complete and unvarying as it proved itself to be. There were moments when Paul seemed dimly conscious of an extraordinary change within himself, and struggled to shake off the cloud which had settled on his brain, to remember whence he had come, and how he had brought himself to Camlough. But as days went by even this slight effort became too much for him. The past dropped away from him and left him at least in peace. He was placid and calm, sometimes silent for long hours; sometimes talking with curious simplicity of the things around him. He shrank from society, spending his time roving aimlessly through the hills and little glens, or losing himself among the high green walls of the beech alleys. Lady Archbold, who had recovered from the attack of illness which joy had brought upon her, pronounced Paul a simpleton, and wondered why Katherine had brought him to the place; but Sir John rebuked her for so rash a judgment.

"You do not understand, my dear. He came here as intelligent a young man as could be found. This is only the effect of illness, and will pass away. Katherine's sake we must be patient with him."

For

Lady Archbold refused to believe in the engagement. She did not wonder that Katherine should have bewitched him away from May, but she looked on Paul as a beggar as well as a simpleton. Sir John considered that it was time to change her mind, and took her to walk with him down the terraces in the glow of the setting sun, while two peacocks strutted behind them with their magnificent tails spread.

"Do you not notice how Katherine is altered ?" said Sir John. "Her heart is engaged at last, and for that we must be thankful. A worthy affection will make her all that we can desire."

"I had no idea you were so exceedingly unworldly," answered his wife.

"I do not pretend to be altogether unworldly. I could not afford it now. But this thing is fortunate from a worldly point of view."

Paul Finiston is the heir-in a short time will be master; and he seems quite untainted by the besetting sin of his family. I predict a noble career for him, and I cannot but think it happy that my fortunes should be linked with his. I have not gone to seek him, nor forced my daughter's fancy. She has had her own way, as I have always allowed her to have it. If the result is satisfactory you are not to call me worldly."

After this Lady Archbold no longer called Paul a simpleton, but became anxious to see his virtues and to behold his mind restored to health; the welfare of Katherine being, as usual, her only care. Nevertheless Paul did not grow wiser nor less fantastic in his ways. He would pass hour after hour picking pebbles from the rocks and flinging them into the sea. He would sit high up in the hills, and hold converse with the sheep. The herds were half afraid of him, though they liked him, for besides his singing to the sheep they often heard him declaiming to the mountains; with head thrown back, and arms folded on his breast, addressing the unconscious cliffs in lofty language. Whilst he rambled about in this way Katherine was often seen hovering at a little distance. She followed him about like a nurse trying to guard a refractory child of whom she has some dread. She scarcely ever lost sight of, but seldom ventured to approach him. Her face had grown very white, and lost a great deal of its beauty, and her eyes had got a strangely timorous look. The people talked quite openly about Miss Archbold's engagement to a fool. She had been over hard to please, and now her heart was set on an idiot. It was wonderful to see her so meek, so absorbed in her care of one person, being never angry now, except when she heard whispers about her fool. Then she would fly into such a fury that every one fled from before her face.

When many weeks had gone past, the parents of Katherine consulted as to what steps ought to be taken in Paul's case. The doctor prescribed amusement and excitement; so the heads of the people at Camlough began to devise plans for the diversion of this demented young man.

Things were just in this state when Bid arrived at Camlough, with her basket on her arm. She hoped to tempt the maids to buy of her wares; at all events her merchandise was to be the excuse for her appearance, and coming over the lower hills that sloped towards the castle it

66

'Oh, Heavens! what is this!" cried

'Misther Paul!" she said, following him again, "I seen Miss May yesterday. You never forgot yer own Miss May ?" Paul turned and stared at her again, with the same blank look in his eyes. "I don't know what you mean," he said. "Oh mother o' God! have you forgot her!" cried Bid; but Paul noticed her no more, only walked on and left her, and the old woman sat down on the heather and wept till her eyes were sore.

A milkmaid was coming over the hills with her milk-pail on her head. She stopped and looked at Bid, and asked her why she was crying. Poor Bid was too sorrowful too think of anything but the truth.

"I met Mister Paul," she said, "an' not a bit he knewn me."

"Wirra whisht, ould woman, don't you know that the man is mad ?"

Now, indeed, it was Bid's turn to question; but for May's sake she remembered that she must be wise. She accepted the milkmaid's invitation to the castle, and sold a pair of blue glass ear-rings on the spot. She was brought into the kitchen, and afterwards had an invitation to the housekeeper's private room, where she disposed of all her jewellery, and was hospitably entertained. When she started to return homewards she had learned all that could be learned as to Paul's unhappy state.

As she came homeward over the mountains her head was dizzy with grief. Paul Finiston mad! How could she carry such news to May. The hope of the country was gone on the wind, but for the moment she thought May's the hardest share of the trouble.

"She'll break her bit o' a heart," said Bid. "She'll turn to the wall an' die.'

When the old woman came to the end of her weary journey, and walked up the garden path, she saw the blinds were still down in the cottage at Monasterlea, and

she knew that May was no better than when she had left her. So Bid crept round to the back door as before, and stepped noiselessly into the kitchen. This time Bridget had no need to put her finger on her lip, for Bid's spirits were so crushed that she was as quiet as a ghost. Miss Martha came to her presently and sent her into May's chamber.

Poor Bid had little art to break her terrible news. She told it out bluntly, in a burst of sympathetic sorrow.

66

Oh, my dear," she said, "there's little use in goin' to look for Paul. He's strayin' about yon hills like a lamb that's lost its mother. He doesn't know you nor me, nor e'er a wan belongin' till him. They say he's promised in marriage to yon bould cruel hussy that took him away wid her out o' here, an' she walkin' about afther him like a cat afther a mouse. But a woman might as well marry hersel' till our poor Con at home. God sees it's the black word to come out o' my mouth to yer ear, but our cliver gintleman has no more sinse left nor a fool."

May sat up in her bed, devouring every word that fell from Bid. The old woman glanced at her fearfully, as if she feared the news would kill her on the spot.

"I

"I knew it," said May, quietly. knew it was not his own will that did it. Now, Bid, I'll get well. Open that window wide, and bring me something to eat."

Bid stared at her vacantly.

"Oh, Bid dear, don't loiter. Hurry, and do what I tell you, for I have no time to lose."

Bid did as she was told, putting her wonder aside to wait for another time. She opened the window wide, and the river and the flowers looked in at May. She trotted away to the kitchen and came back with a basin of soup. Greatly amazed was Miss Martha to find May sitting up in her bed, and Bid holding a basin of soup to her mouth.

Miss Martha was very busy at this time. It was the hay-making season, and she had got to look after her labourers. So Bid stayed with May; she sat by her bedside during the long summer day, telling her stories of the pleasant summer world out of doors. She talked, just as if she had got a sick child to nurse, of how the river was laughing on the stones because the sun was trying to dry it up; but the source in the mountains was too plentiful for that. How the cock was scolding his wives because the chickens were long about