see. It includes the busiest of the manufacturing
towns, and the most business-like,
practical, and hard-handed examples of the
English character. The thorough-going
Manchester or Liverpool legatee would not endure,
beyond a certain point and a certain time, the
impositions, delays, destructions, and muddling
confusion of the will offices in the more easy-
going districts. Time with him is cash.
What he wants he must have at once,
especially if he pays for it. He may be put
off once or twice with a rotten, illegible
index, or a "Come again to-morrow;"
but when he once sees that these may be
obviated, he takes care to let there be no
delay on his part, and agitates immediately.
To engage a Free Trade Hall, and get up a
public meeting, is with him a matter of no
more consideration than scolding his clerk, or
bringing a creditor to book. He has discredited
the maxim that "talking is not doing;"
and a constant iteration of pertinent speeches,
ending with stinging "resolutions," has been
found to do greater feats, to perform much
greater wonders than setting ecclesiastical
registries in order. It is possible, therefore,
that the lay authorities of the Chester
Registry, having the dread of an
uncompromising community before their eyes, saw
their safety in renovation; and, like sensible
men, made it, without that whining sophistication,
that grim tenacity, with which abuses
are excused and clung to, in exact proportion
to their absurdity, profitableness, and
injustice.

THE DUMB CHILD.

                SHE is my only girl:
I ask'd for her as some most precious thing,
For all unfinish'd was Love's jeweled ring,
                 Till set with this soft pearl;
The shade that Time brought forth I could not see;
How pure, how perfect seem'd the gift to me!

                Oh, many a soft old tune
I used to sing unto that deaden'd ear,
And suffer'd not the lightest footstep near,
                 Lest she might wake too soon;
And hushed her brothers' laughter while she lay—
Ah, needless care! I might have let them play!

                "Twas long ere I believed
That this one daughter might not speak to me;
Waited and watch'd God knows how patiently!
                 How willingly deceived:
Vain Love was long the untiring nurse of Faith,
And tended Hope until it starved to death.

                 "Oh! if she could but hear
For one short hour, till I her tongue might teach
To call me mother, in the broken speech
                  That thrills the mother's ear!
Alas! those seal'd lips never may be stirr'd
To the deep music of that lovely word.

                 My heart it sorely tries
To see her kneel, with such a reverent air,
Beside her brothers at their evening prayer;
                 Or lift those earnest eyes
To watch our lips, as though our words she knew,—
Then moves her own, as she were speaking too.

                 I've watch'd her looking up
To the bright wonder of a sunset sky,
With such a depth of meaning in her eye,
                That I could almost hope
The struggling soul would burst its binding cords,
And the long pent-up thoughts flow forth in words.

                The song of bird and bee,
The chorus of the breezes, streams, and groves,
All the grand music to which Nature moves,
                 Are wasted melody
To her; the world of sound a tuneless void;
While even Silence hath its charm destroy'd.

                Her face is very fair;
Her blue eye beautiful; of finest mould
The soft white brow, o'er which, in waves of gold,
                Ripples her shining hair.
Alas! this lovely temple closed must be,
For He who made it keeps the master-key.

                  Wills He the mind within
Should from earth's Babel-clamour be kept free,
E'en that His still small voice and step might be
                  Heard at its inner shrine,
Through that deep hush of soul, with clearer thrill?
Then should I grieve?—O murmuring heart be still!

                She seems to have a sense
Of quiet gladness in her noiseless play.
She hath a pleasant smile, a gentle way,
                 Whose voiceless eloquence
Touches all hearts, though I had once the fear
That even her father would not care for her.

                Thank God it is not so!
And when his sons are playing merrily,
She comes and leans her head upon his knee.
                Oh! at such times I know—
By his full eye and tones subdued and mild—
How his heart yearns over his silent child,

                Not of all gifts bereft,
Even now. How could I say she did not speak!
What real language lights her eye and cheek,
                And renders thanks to Him who left
Unto her soul yet open avenues
For joy to enter, and for love to use.

                And God in love doth give
To her defect a beauty of its own.
And we a deeper tenderness have known
                Through that for which we grieve.
Yet shall the seal be melted from her ear,
Yea, and my voice shall fill it—but not here.

                When that new sense is given,
What rapture will its first experience be,
That never woke to meaner melody,
               Than the rich songs of heaven,—
To hear the full-toned anthem swelling round.
While angels teach the ecstasies of sound!

THE WELL OF PEN-MORFA.

IN TWO CHAPTERS.   CHAPTER II.

NEST revived during the warm summer
weather. Edward came to see her, and stayed
the allotted quarter of an hour; but he dared
not look her in the face. She was indeed a
cripple: one leg was much shorter than the
other, and she halted on a crutch. Her face,
formerly so brilliant in colour, was wan and
pale with suffering: the bright roses were
gone, never to return. Her large eyes were