instant help and of the curability of a large
mass of the most afflicting disease to which
man is liable when instant help is sought,
would probably create a demand for a few
thoroughly good, self-supporting, middle class
asylums strong enough to call them into
vigorous existence.

MY LADY CRUMP.

MY Lady Crump was a fortunate woman.
She was the uncontrolled mistress of a large
fortune; possessed a fine estate in the
country; and could (had she been so minded)
have enacted the part of a Lady Bountiful
as well as any sober-minded, well-endowed
gentlewoman of the last century. She
lived in a grand old manor-house, full of
deep bay-windows, and dark oak panels,
gorgeous with carving, set in a beautiful
terraced garden, rich in cedars and yews. In
the midst of the pleasaunce lay a pretty
lake, peopled with gold fish, and studded
with graceful swans. Her handsome, but
lumbering tub of a coach, drawn by the
sleekest and most satin-coated of horses, and
driven by the most sober of coachmen,
paced in solemn state up the fine elm
avenue leading to the house. Lofty pillars
on either side of the gate bore the arms of
my Lady Crump, namely, gules, on a bend
sable between six sebants or, three purses
argent. Stately peacocks stepped majestically
before the door, spreading their glorious
trains in the sunshine, and myriads of doves
cooed softly from the dovecot. Acres of
gardens stretched away to the south, yielding
great harvests of golden fruit. Plenty seemed
to breathe in the very air of the house, and
corpulence was the rule therein.

My lady's waiting gentlewoman was
comely and stout, and sailed about in rich
sober-tinted silk gowns, gorgeous to
behold, followed by the pet lapdog, who could
only have earned that title from reposing in
the ample lap of Glumdalclitch, for none of
mere mortal mould could by any chance have
contained him. The staid butler was so portly,
he looked as if he ought to have been moved
on castors; and the chaplain was as round
and rosy as one of his own apples. The cook,
as in duty bound, was the fattest of all,—a
perfect mountain of solid flesh; and the very
maids and scullions were as buxom and
plump as partridges fed on wheat. There
was a broad smile over the whole face of the
house, as it lay basking in the full blaze of
the sun, surrounded by great bright hollyhocks
and sunflowers, and garlanded with
huge red roses "from garret to basement,"
every window gleaming with sunshine.

The only person who did not laugh and
grow fat,—the one little blot on all this life
and sunshine,—was my Lady Crump herself,
the owner of it all.

She was a little, plain, spare woman, with
hardly an ounce of flesh about her; with
pale feeble-looking hair, and weak eyes, that
never could have perpetrated a flash or
twinkle in their whole existence. Her
complexion was wan and indefinite,—for she
seemed not to have blood enough in her body
for one good wholesome blush. Her hands
were long, pale, and feeble; not possessing
character enough to look like claws, but
flabby and cold enough for fungus. Her
voice was a ghost: not from want of power,
but from absence of spirit or tone. She
always dressed in dingy greys, or faded
greens, and wore silks that did not make a
grand rustle, but that feebly hissed and
shivered, like damp, dead leaves blowing
about. Her outward appearance was a faithful
sign of her inward character. She was a
dreary, melancholy creature, that lived in her
beautiful house like an owl in sunshine. She
never appreciated the comforts she possessed,
but was always craving for something either
beyond her reach, or that which, when
obtained, lost its charm. In fact, she was the
living and concentrated essence of discontent.
The mood of the silly princess, who longed
for the roc's egg to complete her otherwise
perfect palace, was my Lady Crump's
normal mental condition. She had been an
only child, and became a spoiled one. Every
wish was anticipated, every want was met
by her parents; so that she never knew the
luxury of making a wholesome wish, and
then healthily toiling to obtain it. She was,
in point of riches, a sort of Miss Kilmansegg;
and, like that renowned lady, her natural
tastes and aspirations became perverted and
eccentric. Her whole existence was one
dissatisfied longing after what was beyond her
reach, as a sickly plant in a cellar is drawn
in distorted fashion to the light. All her
servants and retainers had been duly and
rigidly trained not to thwart her, nor cross
her, in any way, so that had she exclaimed
she wished she had the moon, they would
have uttered in chorus, "I wish you had, my
Lady Crump."

As it was, not a day passed that she did
not wish for something unreasonable. One
day it would be for the robust health of
Phœbe Budd, the milkmaid: another day
she wished she had such a lover as Rogers,
the handsome young blacksmith: an idea
that would have created mortal terror and
dismay in said Rogers's mind, had he known
it. One week she would saunter about,
envying Betty Brood her numerous tribe of
wild black-eyed children, the pest and dread
of the whole parish. The ensuing week she
would murmur and repine that Heaven had
not made her a man, to be able to win glory
and scars in the wars of the time.

Her charitable impulses were so feeble
and uncertain that she would stare vacantly
out of her coach window on a poor shivering
half-starved beggar, and, after leaving him
crouched up miles behind on the bleak road,
would mutter dolefully:—