Says he, "The lady as sent the letter round
from the boxes. She will have me; and she's
good-looking, Alf; skin like alabaster" (alablaster
Joey always called it, for he was no scholar and
ain't now), " and she lias plenty of money and
keeps her carriage."

It was true what Joey said. There's the very
lady across the bar there, with the diamond
rings a glittering on her fingers. Joey married
her—or rather she married Joey—and Joey went
the pace with her money, but drew up just in
time to settle down in this snug public-house,
doing the best over-the-counter trade in the
neighbourhood. Joey will be home presently to
supper. I hear the missus (Madame Pollonio
they call her) tell the girl to put the pheasant
down to the fire, quarter of an hour ago.
Oh yes; Joey askes me to supper sometimes,
he's good for that; but he won't to-night. He'll
be tired with his day's pigeon-shooting among
swells. Never mind, I have a bit of cheese and
an onion in the cupboard at home. That's not
a grand supper, I know, but then my business
ain't like Joey's. Sweetstuff and toys ain't so
profitable as they were. The children have
farthings'-worths now-a-days. It's nearly all
farthings'-worths, and its very aggravating when
you've got up a ladder at the risk of your
neck, to take down a farthing kite from the
top shelf, to see the kid change its mind and
run out of the shop to buy apples at the
other shop over the way. Well! The bread
and cheese might have been pheasant if that
unlucky halfpenny had turned up a woman.
Might, did I say? Must! I tell you, I am
certain of it.

BLUE LIGHTNING.

O, THE days when first I knew
The lightning blue
    Of that bright eye!
It smote me, yet it did not kill,
But with a loftier life did fill,
    A life that could not die—
As then I though:—O, rapture rare,
When I was fond, and she was fair!

O, the days when oft I knew
The honey dew
    Of that bright lip!
My bee-like kisses deeply sought
The rosy petals—nectar-fraught—
  Enchanment in eash sip!
O, rapture wild! O, rapture rare!
When she was faithful, fond, and fair.

O, the fatal hour I knew
The lightning blue
   Was fraught with death.—
The ice-bolt clove my heard in twain!
I think I ne'er can die again:—
   For tho' I still have breath,
My life is naught since that cold gleam
Smote the warm fount and froze the stream.

O, the fatal hour I knew
The pallid hue
   Of lips once bright!
Love-laden lips of days gone by,
Bore poison now to bid me die,
   As, with a tremor slight,
They dropp'd the deadly words!—I knew
That I was wrong'd, and she untrue.

PICTURE-WORDS.

THERE will be found in the biographies of
THOMAS CAMPBELL an account of the
composition of the poem entitled Lochiel's Warning.
When describing how the Camerons should be
seen strewn in heaps of slain upon the
battlefield, the wizard says:

Like ocean-weeds heaped on the surf-beaten shore.

But it was not until after many corrections
that the line attained that excellence. In the
earlier copies of the poem it was written

Like ocean-weeds heaped on the tempested shore.

A critical friend suggested that the line would
be more melodious if written

Like ocean-weeds heaped on the storm-beaten shore,

and then by changing the vague word " storm"
for the pictorial word " surf," the poet brought
the crests of waves upon his canvas. This
illustration explains the writer's view of the
origin of words. Every word was a picture at
first, and when traced to its source brings back
a picture. A few examples shall be offered to
the reader, in support and explanation of this.

Men learned in word-lore stop when they
come to what they call roots. They call a root
anything whatever in any language, or group of
languages, which cannot be reduced to a simpler
form. For example, the name of the planet
we inhabit, Earth, is derived from the verb to
ear, which is used by Shakespeare:

To ear the land that has some hope to grow.

And there is an old Saxon adage, "He that
erith owith to ere in hope;" ereing the land
meaning ploughing it, and that which is ploughed
being called the erd, or earth, and the root is
said to be the syllable ar. The Sanscrit word
arya is said to have originally meant " one who
ploughs or tills," the root being said to be ar
even by persons who say "ar" can be traced to
"ri." The difficulty is to explain how "ar," or
"ri" came to stop the way. The syllable
called a root is no more a root than it is a
foundation-stone. It is a metaphorical and not
a scientific expression. The root, we are told,
is the accented syllable of the word in most
languages, the voice laying stress upon it
to mark its importance. Now, accent is the
very soul of pronunciation. Professor Muller,
of Berlin, described accent to be that half-
tone, or smallest interval easily perceived by
an ordinary ear which the voice rises upon
the most important syllable of a word. All,
then, really ascertained respecting the
syllables called roots, is, that they are the
syllables found in several or many languages,
and which are marked by the half-tones. The
students of words differ greatly from each other
respecting the nature, origin, and number of the