and to him, she must, of necessity, refer
me. Would I see him? Of course. With
pleasure. And we entered.

Mr. Pettidoll, reclining on a couch that
might have served for Og, was still in a
rheumatic state of curve, but might (at a
rough calculation) have reached, when
elongated, to about ten feet and a half. He had
a fine old reverend head, and would have
made an imposing study of an ancient
patriarch in his decay.

To him, I repeated the particulars of
my mission, and expressed my hope of a
favourable reply.

Mr. Pettidoll cleared his throat, and,
with language and manner somewhat above
his apparent station, replied as follows:

"Young gentleman; my young friend, if
I may call you so; I am now an aged man;
and, though I hope at all times a resigned,
I have not been a happy, one. The remarkable
proportions which Providence has
allotted to my race, have been the cause of
much mortification, much separation from
the general community of man, and, by
consequence, much loss and curtailment of
things appertaining to material comfort.
My resolution was long since taken, and
has acquired the force of an absolute vow
—never to permit one of my daughters
to marry an individual of unusual stature.
Giants are an anachronism. Never, never,
with my consent—shall the unhappy race
be renewed! Sir, my answer is given.
Thanks, thanks, to your high-minded friend,
but his offer is declined. Susan shall never
wed a giant-husband."

"Thanks to you, my dear Mr. Pettidoll!"
I exclaimed, starting up, and grasping as
much of the hand of the good old man as
mine would hold. "My friend Longchild
is not, as you apprehend, gigantic—save in
heart," I added; for I caught sight of Miss
Susan hovering within ear-shot.

"Not gigantic? That is well. But,"
continued Mr. Pettidoll, "opinions are various.
Mr. Longchild's stately bearing! Mr.
Longchild's commanding form! The powerful
animal Mr. Longchild is compelled to use!
These are indications of something beyond
the height I could desire to see."

"Reassure yourself, dear sir," I replied
(a little uneasily, for I did not know how
the young lady might take it); "my friend
is not—no, certainly he is not—six feet
high."

"Good!" said the giant, relieved.

And, to my unspeakable satisfaction,
Britannia clasped her hands, as in thankfulness.

"I should, perhaps, be wrong," I
resumed, gaining courage, "if I estimated
Longchild's height as exceeding five-feet
six."

"Better!" cried Mr. Pettidoll, sitting up
in bed, to a towering height, and rubbing
his hands.

"Will you be astonished," I faltered (not
daring to look towards Susan), "if I frankly
state that my friend's height is under five
feet?"

(I heard a giggle.)

"Best of all!" roared the old gentleman,
flinging up his nightcap.

"Not, not, quite," I stammered. "Come,
the truth must out! My dear friend,
Longchild, sustained an accident in his
childhood, which limited his height (naturally
moderate), to—to—four feet and a half."

"That man is my son-in-law!" shouted
Mr. Pettidoll, almost straightening himself
in his ecstasy.

And there came, in Susan's broken
accents, from the adjacent room:

"Little darling!"

The largest chalice in Gaunthope-the-Towers
was replenished twice that night.

THE GREAT MAGYAR.
IN FOUR PARTS. CHAPTER IX.

THE deviations of the magnetic needle
do not coincide more precisely with the
periodic convulsions of the solar
atmosphere than the fluctuating condition of
Count Szechenyi's health coincided with
that of his country's fortunes.

Between the month of September, 1848,
and the month of August, 1849, Hungary
was the theatre of a great historical
tragedy. During the whole of that period
the character of Szechenyi's madness was
fearfully violent. On the 11th of August,
1849, the Hungarian tragedy was acted
out, when the sword of an exhausted nation
was surrendered to its foreign conqueror.
From that moment both Hungary and
Szechenyi subsided into the sullen lethargy
of a profound dejection. A countenance
in which all expression seemed for ever
extinguished—more greatly grievous from its
great want of grief—the sullen squalid
ruin of a noble nature—this was all that
now remained of the Great Magyar. To a
period of exasperation had succeeded a
period of silence. To the period of silence
again succeeded a period of loquacity,
wretched, miserable loquacity!—the loquacity
of an unreasoning and unreasonable
remorse. This lasted for two years. To-