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the door, and take a turning you'll see before you; and then anybody will tell you."

And this information being considered sufficient, the head went down again, and there was a noise as of packing bottles.

Whether the directions were wrong, or whether the position of our informer made the difference, we cannot tell. We only know that after much more dispiriting wandering, in the absence of the polar star to guide us, we described almost a circle, and found ourselves once more at the market. We were literally ashamed to ask again. We fancied that the policeman looked suspiciously at us; and the dealers eyed us as if we had been the Wandering Jew. At last, by the luckiest chance in the world, we saw a postman-a strong-minded intelligent man, above equivocation-and he directed us as clearly as minute directions about places perfectly out of sight would allow him to do. We followed his plan; and after passing rows of shell houses, and embryo chapels; and crossing perilous chasms, and limping over roads of broken crockery, and angular bits of granite with all their sharp sides uppermost, which made the walk as pleasant as it would have been along a wall with bottles on the top, we at length arrived— foot-sore and weary-at a row of houses they told us was St. Michael's Terrace. For no name had been put up; neither were there any numbers, and all the doors were alike. Morgiana and her chalk could have bothered the whole of the forty thieves beyond all chance of identifying any of the abodes, better than in Bagdad.

We found out the house, however, and conceived that the last coup had been given to our misery by finding also that our cousin was not at home. Hearing that we were at Liverpool, he had gone over to Radley's to find us out, and he had got the keys! So we wrote a few words, in bitterness of heart, on a card, as we should have done to put in a bottle, in some great extremity out at sea; and sorrowfully began to retrace our steps. Of course we missed our way again. We had noticed a sandstone wall, with a top made of uneven bits, set on their edges, but there were so many like this, that when we thought to be at Woodside, we found ourselves at Birkenhead Church, and now having, as we conceived, a right to rest, we strolled into the churchyard.

The ruins of the old Priory of Birkenhead-or Byrkhed, as it was once called-are behind the church, and we paid them a visit. There was something inexpressibly refreshing in arriving at this tranquil oasis in the wilderness of new glaring bricks, and glowing slates, and dusty scaffold-boards and poles, that surrounded it. In an instant its ivy-costumed walls shut out everything from the view; and nothing told of neighbouring life, except a few bright greenhouse plants gleaming through an old gothic window-space from the garden of a cottage ornée adjoining. The door of the chapel was open, and we rested on one of the benches. The sun fell pleasantly upon the old red monuments of the cemetery, and pierced the evergreens of the ruins to fit on the turf below. All was calm and soothing; nothing breaking the quiet but the pattering of the autumnal leaves as they were driven into the chapel, and almost sounded like footsteps, as if its ghostly residents once more peopled it. There is a board at one of the gates leading to an inner ruin making known that "Strangers are not permitted to go into this place on the Sabbath-day." It is difficult to conceive what feelings not in accordance with the day in question

could be generated by a visit thereto. But there must be some other

reason.

The pier-bell broke our day-dreams. We hurried down to the ferry and missed the boat; so that as the steamers do not leave MonkFerry so frequently as they quit the other piers, we were obliged to go on to Woodside. Everywhere the spirit of enterprise and speculation is at work: on all sides hotels, streets, public buildings-and docks, towards the river-are in progress of formation. The entire colony has the appearance of being certain to prove either the greatest hit or the grandest failure on record, for those concerned in it. The part that struck us as the most worthy of notice, is the Park, which we subsequently visited. We have nothing at all like it of the kind in London, nor, we should conceive, anywhere else. It is laid out and varied with consummate taste.

We had to wait again at Woodside until the half-hour came round; and when we got once more to Liverpool, we had still so much to do, that all notions of leaving that day were out of the question. Even our ten minutes at the ruins would not have aided us, if they could have been recalled. And so we wish well to Birkenhead, and shall be delighted to read in the papers of its extension and improvement-of the spirit of its inhabitants, and prosperity of its institutions. But we shall not venture into its wilds again, until all its streets and rows and terraces are marked in proper maps; and some of the dangers are abolished which at present threaten the enterprising visitor at every step. Until then, what ever relations we may have to establish with its inhabitants shall be accomplished by post.

THE REASONING SCHOOLMASTER.

A REAL CHARACTER.

BY WILLIAM JERDAN.

THE master of our school was an eccentric pedagogue, very learned as we thought, very formal as we saw, very severe as we felt; and among his eccentricities there was none more laughable and cryable than his manner of inflicting punishment. It was a maxim with him that justice should not only be done, but acknowledged; and thus such scenes as the following were of frequent occurrence.

Pedagogue. John Smith?

John. Here, sir!

Ped. Come from your "here" hither. [John moves slowly and reluctantly up to the rostrum.] John Smith, you have been guilty of throwing stones, which I forbade. [John hangs his head disconsolately.] John Smith, it is of no use looking sorrowfully now, you should have thought of sorrow before you committed the offence [reaching down the

cane]. You are aware, John Smith, that those who do evil must be punished; and you, John, must therefore be punished. Is it not so? John. Oh, sir, I will never do it again.

Ped. I hope you will not, John; but as you forgot the prohibition when left to your unassisted memory, the smart of the remembrance now to be administered will be the more likely to prevent any relapse in future. Hold out your hand. [Whack.]

John. Oh, sir! oh, sir! I will never do it again. Ped. I hope not hold out your hand again. [Whack, and a screech from John.] Now, John, you begin to perceive the consequences of disobedience?

John. Oh, yes, sir,—enough, sir, enough, sir!

Ped. By no means, John. You are somewhat convinced of your error, but not yet sensible of the justice of your punishment, and the quantum due to you. Hold out your other hand [whack and scream]. John. Mercy, sir, I will never-[blubbering].

Ped. It is all for your good, John: hold out your left hand again. Even-handed justice! Why don't you do as you 're bid, sir, eh? [4 slash across the shoulders.]

John. Oh! oh!

Ped. That's a good boy!

good boy!

good?

[Whack on the hand again.] That's a [Whack.] Now, John, you feel that it is all for your

John. Oh, no, sir,-oh, no! it is very bad, sir, very sore.

Ped. Dear me, John. Hold out again, sir. I must convince you that it is justice, and all for your good. [A rain of stripes on hands and back, John bellowing all the while.] You must feel it is for your good, my boy!

John. Oh, yes, sir-oh, yes-s-s-s-s.

Ped. That's a good lad; you're right again.

John. It is all for my good, sir: it is all for my good.

Ped. Indeed it is, my dear. There! [Whack, whack.] Now thank me, John. [John hesitates,—whack, whack.]

John. Ah, ah! Thank you, sir;-thank you very much. I will never do it; thank you, sir. Oh, sir, tha-a-a-nks.

Ped. That's a dear good boy. Now you may go to your place, and sit down and cry as much as you wish, but without making a noise. And then you must learn your lesson. And, John, you will not forget my orders again. You will be grateful for the instruction I have bestowed upon you. You will feel that Justice is a great and certain principle. You will feel it, John. You may see, also, how much your companions may be benefited by your example. Go and sit down; there's a good boy. John, there are punishments in this school more disgraceful and severe than that you have just undergone.

John, bowing. Yes, sir,-thank ye, sir.

INDEX

TO THE TWENTIETH VOLUME.

A.

Adventures in New Zealand, by C. Kean,
314.
Albigenses (The) and the Troubadours,
by Dr. W. C. Taylor, 68, 229.
Alice! thou fairest child, 26.
Andersen (Hans Christian), Sketch of the
Life of, 311.

Arnold's (Thomas) Influence on the pre-
sent state of the Church, by his Grace
the Archbishop of Dublin, 190.
As frost upon the hills, by "The Old Ma-
jor," 252.

Austin's (Mrs.) Travels and Travellers in
Italy, 244.

B.

Banks's (G. Linnæus) Take back thy
Gift, 189; Last Night, 228; English
Harvest-home, 389; Old Christmas,

587.
Bede's (Cuthbert) Heart's Misgivings,

401.

Bend lowly as ye mark the tomb, 91.
Brian O'Linn; or, Luck is everything, by

W. H. Maxwell, 1, 109, 253, 321, 492,
500, 608.

Bristol (The City of), Legendary Cities
and Towns, by Louisa Stuart Costello,
170.

C.

Captain Spike; or, The Islets of the Gulf,
by J. Fenimore Cooper, 429, 533.
Child's (The) last dream, 37.
Cholera-morbus Classicus, by Charles De
la Pryme, 350.

Chronicles of the Cinque Ports, by Henry
Curling, 27.

Clive's (Everard) Jugurtha and Abd-el-
Kader, 83; The Caves of Dahra and
Military Atrocities, 209; Military Pu
nishments of the Romans, 282.
Colman (George the Younger) Anecdotes
of, by Thomas Woodfall, 126.
Cooper's (J. Fenimore) Captain Spike;
or, The Islets of the Gulf, 429, 533.
Corpus Poetæ Latini, by Carolus de la
Pryme, 598.

Corso (The) of Naples, by a Resident,

333.

Costello's (Miss) Summer Sketches in
Switzerland, 46, 447, 566; City of Bris-
tol-Legendary Cities and Towns, 170;
Gloucester and Cirencester, Past and
Present, 390.

Cranks (The) of Christmas Tide, by Mrs.
Mathews, 574.

Crowquill's (Alfred) Portrait, 38; Peep
at Society, 305; Little Account, 472;
Owed to my Creditors, 626.

Curling's (Henry) Chronicles of the Cinque
Ports, 27; Disastrous Field-day of an
Officer of Irregulars, 462; Some Ac-
count of Dover, 580.

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H.

Halliwell's (J. O.) Old Jest Books, 594.
Haydon (The late B. R.), Historical
Painter, by E. V. Rippingille, 212.
Heard'st thou the banshee sing, by J. W.
Grylls, 264.

Heart's (The) Misgivings, by Cuthbert
Bede, 401.

I.

I knew thee, Jessie, in that lovely time,
479.

Indian Tragedy (An) by Agnes Lascelles,

265.

In dungeon dark I found thee first, 198.
Invalid's (An) reverie, by G. D., 369.
I saw a brighter eye last night, by G.
Linnæus Banks, 228.

Italian Life, Scenes of, by a Resident-
The Missione, 297.

It is a lone, unnoticed spot, 310.

J.

Jacques Bonhomme, from the French, by
Lady Duff Gordon, 55.
Jerdan's (William) Titular Confusion-
The "Borough-title Terminus," 524;
Reasoning Schoolmaster, 629.
Jessie, 479.

Jugurtha and Abd-el-Kader, by Everard
Clive, 83.

K.

Kean's (C.) Adventures in New Zealand,

314.

L.

Ladye Chapel (The), Warwick, 91.
Lascelles's (Agnes) Indian Tragedy, 265.
Last Days (The) of a Bachelor, by Paul
Prendergast, 162.

Last Night, by G. Linnæus Banks, 228.
Ledbury (Mr.) revisits Paris, and is igno-
miniously expelled from his lodgings,
by Albert Smith, 181, 217.
Lioness (The) 131.

Lioni's First Evening in Naples, 199; La
Festa di Santa Brigida, 202; The Mis-
sione, 297; The Corso of Naples, 333;
Taking the Veil in the Convent Santa
Chiara at Naples, 509.

Literary Retrospect of the Departed, by a
Middle-aged Man, 351.

Little Account (The), by Alfred Crow-
quill, 472.

Long Jim, the Tipperary Process Server,
by a "Cove" of Cork, 559.

Love, 82.

M.

Man to the Spirit of Steam, 198.

Mathews's (Mrs.) Tea-Table Talk, No.
2, 154; The Cranks of Christmas Tide,
574.

Maxwell's (W. H.) Brian O'Linn; or,
Luck is everything, 1, 109, 253, 321,
492, 608.
Middle-aged Man's Literary Retrospect of
the Departed, 351.

Military Punishments of the Romans, by
Everard Clive, 282.

Monasteries, Dissolution of, by Dr. W. C.
Taylor, 417.

Murder (The) of Sir Thomas Overbury,
by Dr. W. C. Taylor, 627.
My father, I am so happy, 37.

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