seized on the poor young woman, and made her its prey. Yes, suggested her inflamed imagination, he loves another she is not so handsome and youthful as thou art-she has not thy blooming cheeks, nor thy luxuriant tresses but men never remark such things. Everything around her shows luxury and affluence-and thou art surrounded by penury and poverty. She has flowers in her hair, and flowers in her saloons-she lives among flowers, in autumn as in winter-and thou art surrounded by the wretched attributes of thy lowly condition, copper money, tallow-candles, the smell of the apothecary's shop, provincialism, rags, and solitude. How darest thou to love this stately man, to whom thy wretched mode of life must be disgusting, although he endeavours to conceal it? Hast thou forgotten, or hast thou never remarked, how the sight of thy poverty clouds his forehead, and brings a contemptuous smile to his lip? And thou, his humble slave, art content to catch a look of pity, instead of love. Thou hast forgotten thy pride, and the dignity of thy sex, in order to become an object of ridicule to a fine lady, and a subject for compassion to a man of the world, who always despised thy poverty, and would be ashamed to be happy with thee. The next day the apothecary's wife was deadly pale, and immersed in thought; her husband watched her with anxious looks, gave her several powders to take, and seemed much discomposed himself. The Baron appeared, as usual, about noon. Charlotte received him coldly, and scarcely replied to his questions, and then left the room, under the pretence of household business. The Baron went home out of sorts. The apothecary was silent. The next day it was the same thing again, and the third. Charlotte was pale and careworn-she neither smiled nor sighed ; there was something cold, collapsed, and brooding in her look. thecary never said a word. The apo A week passed thus. It was evening -the Baron was sitting in his room, buried in thought, and leaning his head in his hands. Charlotte's coldness strengthened his passion much more even than the most refined coquetry would have done. His frivolous plans all vanished. He was in love, really, VOL. XXXI.-NO. CLXXXII. earnestly-full of ardent, boy-like passion-restless and sleepless without a ray of hope-plunged in despair. This sudden change in her deportment was inexplicable to him. A moment's explanation must put all to rights again-but just now, as if to prevent it-her husband never left her side for a moment. Suddenly he raised his head, the door creaked, and the apothecary walked into the room. What can this mean? Even the apothecary's good-humoured face looked pale and care worn. "I come to you," said he "on an important affair. You have been staying here on business?" "Yes," replied the Baron, coldly. "But your mission is at an end-is it not?" "No doubt it is-but what of that?" "Why do you linger on here, when your business is at an end?" The Baron looked confused. The apothecary folded his arms, and continued "A disgusting piece of gossip has come to my ears-I disposed of it as it deserved. I have so much confidence in my wife, that I would not wound her by showing her the slightest suspicion of her. But still, in a little town like this, such reports may have very unpleasant results, and it is my duty to prevent this." "Do you wish for satisfaction ?" said the Baron, thoughtfully. "Satisfaction !" replied the apothecary, with dignity. “And are you not ashamed to make such a proposal to me; I am neither a student, nor a man of the world. Do you suppose that I would risk all my wife's prospects in life on account of a foolish business like this, that has only wounded my own self-love; or that I could suffer you to act the magnanime... towards me. No, Herr Baron, we are neither of us children-I came to you for a different purpose.' “What, then, do you wish for ?" "That you should go back to St. Petersburg immediately." "Yes, I will do so in a few days." "No, this very night." "That is impossible; I really cannot do so it is quite impossible.' "Well, then, in that case, we can sit down for a little, and I will tell you a short story." "Stop," said the Baron. "Do not interrupt my story. Yes, this youth was unprincipled; for as he well knew that he would never marry the girl, he should never have inveigled her innocent affections, nor deceived the old man's confidence; nor should he have employed the gifts with which nature had favoured him, for the purpose of sacrificing the peace of a family to his own amusement." The baron sunk his head slowly on his breast, without saying a word. "In the same town," continued the apothecary, "there lived another young man, who had neither property, a brilliant exterior, or personal advantages of any kind, and having no career to look forward to, he worked incessantly in order to put himself in a position to earn his bread honourably. But he, too, possessed a youthful heart capable of warm and generous sentiments, and open to love. But this is not the question. Do you comprehend me? But let us speak openly. When you left that town, every one knew that Charlotte loved you. Many of us thought, in our innocence, that you, having had free access to the house like a promised bridegroom, would return and claim your bride. I was the only one who penetrated you and your character; and I sought the professor's acquaintance. The old man told me how he had loved you; how he had foolishly hoped, and how he had been miserably disappointed. I proposed to him to go to St. Petersburg to seek you out, and ascertain whether there were any hopes of your return. went and found that you were paying your addresses to the Countess Krasnoselski." I "How do you know that?" demanded the Baron. "I only know that she jilted you; but there was no hope for Charlotte, and then I offered her my hand. God knows I never teazed her with protestations of a passion in which I knew she could not participate. I only promised to myself to be her protector and second parent, for her own father died just then. I brought her here, fearing that it would be too pain ful to her to stay in a place with which so many sad reminiscences were connected. But she continued sad, and happiness was a stranger to her. This cast me down completely. You do not know what it is to be obliged to ap pear gay and free from care, whilst one's heart rankles with a galling wound. All of a sudden you arrived here. I thought to myself, that if my wife still loved you, nothing else remained for me than-to go alone into the wide world. For I was ready and willing to sacrifice all my happiness to hers. Perhaps, too, I may have hoped that she would find out to what an extent you belonged to the great world, and that she might thus regain her peace of mind. And thus have I lived since your arrival. I do not demand, but expect a determination from you. This very morning Charlotte opened her whole heart to me; she begged my pardon, as if this angel could resist it as if I had not known everything long ago. But she charged me at the same time to tell you, that she has but one request to make of youthat you would go away; for between the fashionable Roué of the 'grand monde' and the poor apothecary's wife there can be nothing in common. Pardon me, if I have caused you pain; I am only doing my duty. Will not you also perform yours?" "Jacob!" shouted the Baron to his servant, "order post-horses immediately." The two rivals stood facing each other for a few minutes. “Thank you,” continued the apothecary, after a while; " have you still some good in you- the great world has not altogether corrupted you." "And you thank me?" interrupted the Baron, with genuine feeling. "You, before whom I ought to bow my head in reverence!" This strange dialogue soon took another turn. They began to talk of their "university years," of their former fellow-students, and of their com mon love. They sat together like two men who had now met for the first time, and felt themselves irresistibly attracted towards each other. They both discovered, for the first time, that, setting apart the difference of their habits and position, there was something congenial and fraternal in their dispositions-both had nearly the same antipathies, the same wishes, and it seemed determined by fate that they should both live the same intellectual life, and both love the same woman. Jacob, delighted to be off, was meanwhile carrying out the luggage, and strapping it on the carriage. The horses were put to, everything was ready, and the Baron and the apothecary shook hands cordially. "Remember me to her," said the Baron, in a scarcely articulate voice. "Do not forget us," said the apothecary, with a heavy heart. They embraced one another in silence, the postillion flourished his whip, and the carriage drove off at full'gallop. When the apothecary returned home, he found his wife standing on the steps of the door waiting his return, her face convulsed, her hair dishevelled, and holding a light in her hand. "Well!-what?" gasped she, and her voice seemed to fail her. "Gone!" said the apothecary, rubbing his hands; "you will now have peace." "Gone?" repeated Charlotte, mechanically and slowly-"gone!" The light glided from her hand, she staggered, and sunk into her husband's arms. A year passed over. In a Russian provincial town, nothing ever changes -at least, not for the better. The market-house became only more dilapidated; here and there the roof of a house had sunk down altogether on the ground, and the trottoirs had become perfectly impracticable for foot passengers. One morning, the reader's old acquaintance, the man of the frogged coat, had been sitting in Baruscheff's shop, tasting the new plums and the old almonds. At length he got up, and went over to the post-office, to ascertain whether any stranger had passed through during the night. As he was making his way between the ruts in the streets, he observed some one walking straight up to him. At the first glance, the well-practised provincialist saw that this person was not one of the townsfolk. At the second, he fancied he must have seen him before. He went straight up to the stranger, and stopped short in amazement. "Bah! Baron, is that you?" "Good morning." "So you have come back to us again?" "No, I am only travelling through." "And your carriage?" "Is at the post-office. They are putting the horses to, and meanwhile I just got out to stretch my legs." "So! what a pretty handkerchief you have a genuine foulard." "Yes." "Just permit me to look at it-how pretty it is!" The Baron turned deadly pale, as they came to the corner of the street. "Pray tell me," said he, with a tremulous voice, "why has the sign been removed from the apothecary's house ?" "What!—did not hear about it?" "No." "We have got no apothecary's shop now in town.' "Has taken leave of us.' "Dead!" cried the Baron, forgetting all his hauteur. "Just four months ago. I thought you knew it already. Yes, the poor thing is dead. You recollect her? She was not bad looking. She would have been thought pretty, even in the capital, I am quite sure.' 39 "Was she long sick?" demanded the Baron, with a strong effort. "Eight months! Her poor husband never left her bed for a moment. But what was the use?-there is no cure for consumption. You will stay a day with us? Our burgomaster has married a Polish wife-we can dine with him. And just fancy, since his marriage he has given up praising the Polish women. Let us go to him." "No, no! I must hurry on to St. Petersburg." "Adieu!" And the travelling-carriage swept round the corner. OUR PORTRAIT GALLERY.-NO. XLVIII. DOCTOR LITTON. THOUGH We had originally appropriated our Portrait Gallery to eminent natives of Ireland, we have thought it right and proper, occasionally, to relax that exclusive rule. When extraordinary merit, long residence, and important services, give a claim to our notice, we are happy to adopt, as our countrymen, those who so well deserve the honour of being enrolled as free denizens of the whole civilized world. We remember to have heard of a French lady, who, criticising the language of an amiable English correspondent, said of her letter, in the neat style of French compliment" Ce n'est pas precisement Francois, ma chere, mais assurement il merite bien de l'etre"-so we say of the truly amiable and excellent subject of our present memoir. He was not precisely Irish, but assuredly he well deserves to be inscribed among our illustrious dead. Dr. Samuel Litton was a native of Lancashire. His father, Edward Litton, was a man distinguished, like his son, as an ardent lover of literature, and fully competent, as his letters show, to guide the mind of that son in the intricate paths of science, and his morals by the unerring light of religious truth. Some few of these letters, addressed to him, while a student in our university, were, with due reverence for such a father, religiously preserved; attesting, as they do, the friendly intercourse of congenial souls, and the deep interest each took in the other. His mother was Rhoda Makom, niece to James Makom, an eminent and wealthy barrister, and related to the Clive family, by whom he obtained such ample means as unfortunately tempted him to embark in mercantile pursuits at Liverpool, where, through inexperience, facility of temper, and devotion to literature, he ultimately sustained great losses. He was the author of a work of some celebrity, in defence of the divinity of our Saviour. Socinian principles being, at one time, current in Liverpool, where a gentleman, in some repute, had published a book of a dangerous tendency, inculcating those principles, Mr. Litton, who entertained a strong sense of the importance of the doctrine it involved, and of the necessity imposed on him, as well as on divines, whose duty it was to support it, published a reply to the Socinian. The pamphlet having been perused by the then Bishop of Chester, he addressed Mr. Litton, in a highly complimentary letter, expressing his strong approval of the work, regretting that the writer of it should not be an ordained minister of the church, and proposing to supply what was wanting, by himself conferring on him ordination. This flattering proposal, however, was declined. Another work of his is extant, of an equally serious and useful character. It is a book intended to instruct youth in the principles and use of the English grammar. This for a time very popular work is called "Litton's Grammatical Instructor." The subject of our memoir sustained the early misfortune of being deprived of his mother, while yet but three years old-a loss, in some respects, not to be supplied by the most devoted father. At the school selected for him he displayed industry and talents of no ordinary character, more, indeed, than is usually found even in those considered to evince precocious abilities. It is probable he would have completed his education in the land of his birth, and adorned it with his acquirements, had not accident directed them to another country. The learned Dr. Magee, then a junior fellow of Trinity College, Dublin, and subsequently archbishop, met his father on one of his occasional visits to Liverpool, where some of his family then resided. The learning and scientific attainments of Mr. Litton surprised and attracted, in no small degree, the attention of his gifted acquaintance. His deep piety strongly interested the author of "The Atonement," and his unbending high-church principles delighted the future archbishop. They were mutually pleased with each other's society, and Dr. Magee took a great interest in Mr. Litton's family. He was particularly pleased with the manners and promising abilities of his son, and was desirous of securing for him some means of improvement, more extensive than those afforded by the school he was sent to. The reputation of Trinity |