what I call running. It would look mighty
funny to see white folks get over the ground
like THAT."

Laughing must be as efficacious in keeping
up the courage in real dangers, as whistling in
imaginary perils; for in laughing at that revolving
scarecrow, and in hurrying to the gate,
I forgot the wild cat and her screeches.

The bears of Texas and the Far West are
another dangerous set. But you rarely find a
Texan shrink from an encounter with them, even
if he have only a knife wherewith to defend himself.
I knew a man who lost his arm in an attack
of this kind. A bear assailed his dog, a favourite
hound, and the man chanced to have no better
weapon about him than a pocket-knife. With
rash impetuosity he ran towards the bear, and
plunged the blade into his throat. The wound
was not deep enough to do more than anger the
beast, and, open mouthed, he fiercely turned
upon the man, who received him with repeated
and well-aimed stabs. In the course of this
frightful struggle the man's arm was bitten off
below the elbow. But this only rendered him
the more determined. The dog, released, joined
in the combat. With his remaining arm the
dauntless Texan persevered, dodging and
stabbing at his clumsy though powerful adversary,
until the brute was killed, and the dog's life
saved.

Daring and rash as such a conflict appears, it
is by no means uncommon. Even the women in
those border countries acquire a skilful use of
fire-arms and other defensive weapons. Often
left alone, or with only young children, in their
isolated dwellings, they might become an easy
prey, were they not thus prepared. It has been
among these daughters of the West that we
have heard of feats of daring and courage during
the civil war, that may chill the blood of
our own gentle English girls. Women have
joined the ranks with their lovers and husbands,
or have resolutely avenged their death, never
pausing or resting until revenge has been
accomplished. Even in more civilised Virginia
women have prepared themselves, by regular
practice and drill, to defend their own homes
when they shall have parted with their last
male relative. The young ladies of Texas, who
combine as many characteristics as the state
which gave them birth, are daring riders. They
manage a high-mettled steed with as much ease
as they handle a revolver; and in their rides—
races they may often be called— excite their
horses to full speed with the rattle of a snake.
The terror of rattlesnakes evinced by the horse
has already been mentioned; his ears are
exceedingly alive to the sound; taking not very
tender advantage of which the fair equestrians
will fasten a snake's rattle to their hats, and
shake it.

At the same time it must be remembered that
the young ladies of Texas are numbered among
the best educated and most accomplished of the
South. Moreover, from the good influence of
their northern immigrants, they are said to
excel as much in the management of a house as
of a horse; and, to their credit, be it asserted,
that so far from despising the useful occupations
of life, they finger the rolling-pin as skilfully as
the piano.

CLEMENT CAREW.

IN FOUR CHAPTERS. CHAPTER 1.

I WAS walking one afternoon with my friend
Henry Bertram, who, as everybody knows, is
one of the zealous hard-working curates of the
populous parish of St. James in the East, when
we were suddenly overtaken by a violent
thunder-storm; and the rain, which presently came
down in torrents, made quite a river of the
streets, and drove every one under cover who
could possibly find one. There were no porches
in that poor locality; but my companion, who
was thoroughly familiar with it, remarked that
he would take me to the abode of a friend close
by, who would only be too flattered to afford us
shelter. " And let me tell you he is worth
knowing," Henry Bertram added; " more so,
perhaps, than any one in my district. I consider
him one of the most remarkable men I ever
came across."

"In what way?"'

"Well, if you can get him to tell you his
story, as he once told it me, you will soon see.
He is a striking instance of the effect upon the
mind of early impressions. He will tell you of
a curate, who, dead now many years, has
exercised, and exercises still, a wondrous influence
upon his heart and life. I had heard of the man
before I ever met Clement Carew, and marvel
not at the way in which his memory is cherished
and venerated by those who knew him. Were
there many such labourers in our vineyard, we
need fear neither the dissensions nor the proselytism
of which we hear so much in these days."

As Mr. Bertram spoke, he stopped before a
small shop of respectable exterior; on entering
which, we found the owner, a carpenter and
small upholsterer, busily employed in polishing
up a piece of furniture just completed. He was
so engrossed in this occupation, that he never
heard us enter; and I had a moment or two in
which to examine him unobserved. I saw
nothing very remarkable. A short square man,
about forty, of considerable personal strength,
with fair hair and reddish whiskers, a broad
forehead, and earnest countenance— a man to
do what he did thoroughly, as he was doing this
now— to be conscientious himself, and, perhaps,
stern in his dealings with others; that was what
my rapid glance told me concerning him. The
severity of his expression, however, passed away
at once, as he looked up and met my companion's
kindly greeting. In his full serious eye, too,
there was something faithful and affectionate;
his frank smile disclosed a set of short teeth
(generally an indicative of strength), set together
evenly as the keys of a piano; and his manner
betokened both cordiality aud intelligence.

Mr. Bertram introduced me as an old college
friend, and added, that he had inspired me with
a desire to make his acquaintance. "For you