near St. Alban's, where after some time she was joined by the Duke, whom his enemies had deprived of all his appointments. He had long sighed for domestic peace and tranquil retirement; but such blessings he was never fated to enjoy. The Duchess, baffled, mortified, and disappointed, gave full scope to her angry passions; she quarrelled with her husband, her children, and her friends; in the most innocent action she discovered something amiss; in the most indifferent phrase she detected premeditated insult. The persecutions of the court still further soured her temper to escape from them, the Duke resolved to go abroad; and the honours with which he was everywhere received on the continent consoled him for the neglect with which he had been treated at home.

On the accession of George I., Marlborough was restored to the command of the army, but was not admitted to any share of political power. He died in June 1720, leaving to his wife the greater part of his enormous wealth. The Duchess, though frequently solicited, refused to marry again. But she lived on the worst of terms with her children and grandchildren; their quarrels, indeed, occupy a very disproportionate share of the scandalous chronicles of the time. It will be sufficient to give one specimen of these family dissensions :-the Duchess having quarrelled with her grand-daughter, Lady Anne Egerton, caused the young lady's portrait to be blackened over, and then wrote on the frame, "She is blacker within."

The Duchess had formed a project for uniting her favourite granddaughter, Lady Diana Spencer, to Frederick Prince of Wales, which was disconcerted by the interference of Sir Robert Walpole, to whom she ever after evinced the most inveterate hatred. Her imperious temper continued unchanged to the last hour of her life. It was said that fate itself was compelled to yield to her behests. Once, when very ill, her physicians said that she must be blistered, or she would die, upon which she called out, "I won't be blistered, and I won't die !" and on that occasion she kept her word. Her death finally took place at Marlborough House, October 18th, 1744, in the eighty-eighth year of her age. She left enormous wealth :-thirty thousand a-year to her grandson, Charles Duke of Marlborough, and as much to his brother; and, among her miscellaneous bequests were ten thousand pounds to Mr. Pitt, afterwards Earl of Chatham, and double that sum to the Earl of Chesterfield, for the zeal with which they had opposed Sir Robert Walpole. It is a pity that the Duchess should be remembered by her eccentricities rather than her abilities. To her influence no small share of the early glories of Queen Anne's reign must be attributed; and she may also claim the merit of having largely contributed to secure the Hanoverian succession.

BRIAN O'LINN;

OR, LUCK IS EVERYTHING.

BY THE AUTHOR OF "WILD SPORTS OF THE WEST."

[WITH AN ILLUSTRATION BY J. LEECH.]

CHAPTER XVII.

Brian rejoins me.-We visit the dwarf.—Mrs. Bouverie does not assume the name and arms of Elliott.

As Brian bent his steps from the domicile of Dr. Faunce to the cottage of his future father-in-law, he pondered deeply over the revelations he had listened to with so much interest; for the most important passages in that strange and eventful narrative were applicable to the darker portions of his own romantic history. His brain was in a whirl-wild fancies filled his imagination, such as he could not dispel, and dared not encourage. Had he a name?-had be a lineage? Was he of peasant origin or gentle birth? To what heritage was he rightfully entitled?—the lowly cot or lordly hall? Were those, whose bones were resting in the cemetery of the lonely island indeed his parents?—and was that sacred dust all that was mortal of the heiress of Holmesdale, and the bold adventurer who had wooed, and won, and lost her? Fevered with conflicting hopes and fears, he reached the abode of love, and the smile from the open casement which greeted his return banished ambition's visions, and recalled him to the sweet reality that, however humble his parentage and fortune might be, in Susan Neville he possessed "what gold could never buy."

"I am inclined to play you false, dear Brian," said the smiling girl, as she withdrew her "red ripe lips" from his.

"In what way, pretty traitress?"

"By withholding a letter left for you by the postman. Alas! I fear it will summon you away."

Brian hastily broke the seal-and as he perused its contents, be told his anxious mistress that her surmises were correct.

"And must you return to London, Brian? But why are you so grave, dearest ?"

"Have I not sufficient reason to be sad, in being obliged to leave love and thee, Susan, even though the term of our separation shail be so short?"

"Well, you must console yourself with the thought-"

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That, on my return, Susan will be mine," exclaimed the young Irishman, as he pressed the blushing girl to his heart.

"But is there no other cause besides to make you look dolorous as the Knight of the Woful Countenance, whose picture we used to laugh at in the drawing-room at Carramore?"

"None whatever as it regards myself, dear girl; but I regret to say, a valued friend has met with a severe misfortune."

"Indeed! May I ask his name, and also, what has unhappily be fallen him?"

"You have heard me speak of Mr. Elliott, from whose family, when on the Border, I received so much kindness and hospitality." "O yes. I shall be so sorry, should that gentleman be the person you allude to; for I have heard you speak of that kind family with so much gratitude and respect. Alas! what is the misfortune that has occurred?"

"He has unfortunately fallen-" and Brian paused. "From his horse?" exclaimed the pretty listener.

"Alas! no-far worse.

"Go on, dear Brian."

He has fallen-”

"Into love-and-with a widow too."

"Ah! you teazing wretch!" And a gentle tap upon the cheek called down the punishment love exacts—a kiss.

Old Neville's entrance ended this badinage,-the summons to town was announced to him, -a day on the ensuing week was named for the union of the youthful lovers,-and early next morning Brian bade Holmesdale a temporary farewell, in the same state that he entered it-to wit, upon the roof of the Express. In the village coteries the objects of his journey to the metropolis were variously stated. According to some, his business was to invest his bride's fortune in the funds; while others, and particularly of the fair sex, averred, that it was only to make additions to the lady's trousseau, which was agreed, nemine contradicente, would be on a scale of superior magnificence.

A singular, and in Brian's estimation, an ominous occurrence marked the commencement of his journey. When the coach had proceeded a mile, a signal was made from a public-house, and the driver pulled up to allow a passenger to get outside. Seated beside the coachman, and protected against a bitter east wind by a greatcoat buttoned to his ears, Brian, undiscovered himself, recognised in the traveller his ruffian acquaintance, Hans Wildman. Early as it was, the scoundrel had evidently been drinking freely-and, occupying the seat immediately behind the box, every syllable he uttered during a three hours' journey was distinctly heard by the young Irishman, who still preserved his own incognito.

"Cursed cold wind-and your nose is the colour of Blue Peter," said the scoundrel, addressing a farmer who sat behind him. "Why the devil don't you fortify yourself against it as I did? Well-I 'İl stand a nip of brandy at the next stage. You're from Holmesdale, I suppose ?"

"No, sir," returned the farmer; "I am from the neighbourhood." "And whose tenant are ye?" continued the scoundrel, with insolent familiarity.

"I hold my farm under Mr. Hunsgate," was the dry return. "Then you hold it under a d-d good fellow," observed Mr. Wildman.

"You have made a valuable discovery," said the caustic voice of the third occupant of the seat behind the box; "for, although I have lived all my life within a mile of the Priory, I never heard that fact before."

"Well, I suppose I'm not expected to find ears for you," said the ruffian, with a vulgar laugh. "All I can say is, ask any gentleman who has had his leg under Dick Hunsgate's mahogany if he an't a regular brick."

VOL. XX.