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was standing before a mirror, in the light dress of a dancer, waiting the signal that was to summon her on the stage. Who would have recognized, in the tall, beautiful maiden, the little wild beggar girl? The flashing, dark eyes alone, were not altered; they were as full as ever of pride and fire: but in everything else she is changed. The glossy hair, black as the raven's wing, was coiled in thick masses round the well-formed head; the tall, elegant figure, the slender white throat, and the firmly-set features, presented a striking picture of beauty and pride.

The signal was given, and La Villette stood in all her bewitching beauty, before the public. She was welcomed with rapturous applause, but she received it with an air of indifference; and her bright eyes glanced carelessly round the house.

"Well, what do you think of my taste, Bernhardt?" whispered his friend.

"Admirable," was the answer; "La Villette surpasses my expectations; I should like to make her acquaintance, if you will introduce me?"

"Willingly, but I tell you beforehand, that your trouble will be thrown away; you might as well try to thaw an iceberg as La Villette. I have tried, and—”

"Failed," laughed Bernhardt.

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Three months have passed since the foregoing scene; and the sunshine of a lovely July evening was streaming through an open window, forming, with its rays, a brilliant halo round the beautiful head of the charming Villette, as she sat gazing down on the busy crowd that thronged the street. Her head was leaning on one little hand, the other was clasped in that of a young and singularly handsome man who sat beside her-that man was Bernhardt; who, since the first night he saw her, had been her devoted admirer. Whether she cared for him or not he could not divine; but he was quite sure that he cared much more for her than he had either expected or wished. It was a feeling of vanity, that had first urged him to try and win her; to show his friends, and also to gratify his own pride, in proving, that no woman's heart could withstand his beauty. But he found, to his astonishment, that the imperious dancer, far from looking upon his admiration as an honour, merely received it as expected tribute to her beauty and talents. Not the closest observation on his part could detect the least alteration of her face or manner on his approach-it's true she

welcomed him, when he came with smiling grace, but the light did not fade from her eyes, or the smile from her lips, when he wished her good-bye. Ah! if he could have guessed that it was but a part she was playing, that her seeming indifference was but a mask to hide the love that was burning in her heart: but so it was, she loved him with all the strength of a passionate heart; and it was only the thought that she was a poor dancer, dependant on her talents for her bread, and he, the heir to a millionare, that restrained her feelings within an icy barrier.

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How quickly the time passes," said he, after a long pause; "I can hardly believe that it is three months since we came to Vienna; but the fact that we leave to-morrow, brings the disagreeable truth before my eyes.' "Leave!" said Undine, thoughtfully; "and where do you go, if I may ask?" "To Frankfort, where we are to live for the future."

He glanced at her face as he spoke, but he could detect no change there: her eyes fell for a moment, but when she raised them again they were as clear and bright as ever.

"I should like to go there: it must be so pleasant to travel; were I rich-" and she looked at him smilingly-"I would go to Frankfort, England, Paris, Rome, wherever I wished."

"And you feel then, no grief at our parting? Am I then so indifferent to you?" he asked, sadly.

"I do not know why I should feel grief," she answered. "You are certainly the noblest amongst all my admirers. You applaud louder than all the others when I dance well; and you have brought me more beautiful and costly flowers than anyone else: otherwise there is no difference between you and the others." And she laughed as she spoke, and turned towards the window.

Bernhardt coloured deeply. "And so, Mademoiselle Villette," said he coldly, "you look upon me merely as a unit in the crowd of your admirers. If I had only known it sooner, I-"

"Would have spared your voice, and saved the money you have spent for the flowers," said she contemptuously.

"You can be as sarcastic as you like; it is the privilege of women to laugh at the fools who love them: you are, I see, the same as all the rest of your sex," and he laughed bitterly.

She stood up, laid her hand upon his shoulder, looked steadfastly into his eyes, and said earnestly, "Friedrich do you love me?" "Villette, Villette! you know that I love you!"

"Would you marry me? Would you take a dancer for your wife?"

“Villette, were I my own master, I would, but, as you already know, my hands are bound and I cannot do as I would. I depend upon the good will of my aunt, and she, Villette, is one of the proudest of her sex. She would dis

own me, and give her property to strangers, were I to marry one who

He stopped, in doubt what expression to make use of.

"Go on, sir-one who is so much beneath you! There, I have helped you to say what you meant:" and, giving a short, bitter laugh, she raised her hand from his shoulder, and threw herself back in her seat.

At that moment the door opened, and Hans Schmidt's eldest daughter entered, saying, Papa says it is time to go to the rehearsal."

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Very well, Lena, I will be ready in a minute,' said Undine, quietly. Farewell, Bernhardt," said she, holding out her hand, "let us part as friends, we may meet again some day, and then we shall be able to laugh over what has just happened.

He pressed her hand to his lips and kissed it tenderly-then drawing from his finger a diamond ring, he placed it on hers, saying:

"Wear this in remembrance of me: should we meet again, it will make me think of other days: farewell!" He was gone.

For three hours was La Villette upon the stage, hardly hearing the friendly greetings of hundreds, for her thoughts were far away. Not one of all those who saw her that night bore a sadder heart in their breast than she who danced so gaily and so gracefully, and whom everyone believed was the happiest of the happy.

CHAP. V.

Five years have passed, and Undine, whom we last met as a girl of sixteen, had now become a beautiful woman, rich, and celebrated. She had reaped fresh laurels by her visits to the different capitals, and Hans Schmidt's prophecy was fulfilled. Out of her abundant earnings she had presented Schmidt with a sum that enabled him and his family to live in comfort, and when she had accomplished this act of gratitude she left Vienna, and travelled towards Frankfort. During this time she had not again met Friedrich Bernhardt, but she had not forgotten him. She often contemplated the ring, and her mind was busy with memories of the past but the thought of how he had forsaken her, through fear of the world's opinion, roused her from her dreams.

"Would he know me again?" she asked herself, as, standing before her mirror, she saw how the last five years had altered her. He knew her only as La Villette-the name she had assumed when first she came upon the stage. She now resolved to take the name of Undine Lowenstein, and, by her retirement from the stage and change of name, she hoped to avoid recognition. Her appearance in the fashionable circles of Frankfort caused a great sensation. Young, beautiful, and rich, she was soon the queen of society, and no one suspected that she and the dancer Villette were one and the same person.

It was at a ball that Undine met Madame Von Albrecht (Friedrich Bernhardt's rich aunt). A certain impression in the features of that lady caused Undine to take a great interest in her. In spite of the difference of age, there was a strange likeness between them both which was, perhaps, the reason that Madame Von Albrecht, on her side, felt nearly as much as Undine. She found it impossible to take her eyes off her. At length, being no longer able to contain herself, Madame Von Albrecht went over to Undine, and said to her, with visible agitation in her voice, "Will you pardon me a question that must seem rather strange to you? Is your name really Lowenstein? Certainly, Madame," answered Undine. "I cannot think why you should doubt it!"

"Believe me it is not mere curiosity that prompts these questions; but may I ask your Christian name ?"

"I am called Undine, Madame." Madame Von Albrecht turned deadly pale, and seemed ready to faint.

"You are ill, dear Madame !" cried Undine, much alarmed.

"No, no," she cried, clasping her hands; "but tell me if you have upon your left arm the mark of a heart."

"Yes," said Undine, now nearly as much agitated as her questioner; and, throwing back her sleeve, she showed the mark.

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My daughter!" cried Madame Van Albrecht, and fell fainting.

A scene of confusion ensued. Undine, pale and agitated, had Madame Von Albrecht carried into another room, where a doctor, who happened to be present among the guests, applied the usual remedies, and in a short time brought her back to life. As Madame Von Albrecht opened her eyes they glanced searchingly round, and at length fell upon Undine, who was kneeling by her side.

"My child! my long-lost child!" and bending her head on Undine's shoulder, she wept tears of joy.

The following explanation was given by Madame Von Albrecht of the loss of her daughter. When Undine was about five years old she accompanied her mother on a visit to Vienna. One day the child was taken out for a walk by its nurse; the latter, meeting with an acquaintance, stood for some time talking. Undine wandered away, and when the nurse at length looked round she was gone out of sight. The most careful search was made for her, but without success: no trace of the child was discovered-Undine understood well why. She remembered meeting with old Beck on that day, who, after enticing the little creature to follow her home, kept her carefully concealed for some time, till she could, without fear, send her into the streets to beg.

Undine related to her mother all particulars of her past life, with the exception of her acquaintance with Friedrich Bernhardt, and she listened with a quiet smile, as her mother predicted what good friends they

would become as soon as they had learned to know each other. They met, and, as Undine had expected, Bernhardt did not recognize her; nevertheless, her voice, her manner, and often the expression of her features, seemed familiar to him, and he would sit for hours watching her. "Cousin Friedrich," said Undine, one day, as she looked up for at least the twentieth time, and found his eyes still fixed upon her. "Cousin Friedrich, what is the matter with you? Have I bewitched you, that you shonld stare at me so? At least, you are not very polite."

"Pardon me, Undine," said he, rousing himself from his reverie, "it is that you so wonderfully resemble a person I once knew, that I am quite bewildered: I never saw two persons so alike as you two.

"Indeed:" said Undine, laughing, "and who is it, cousin ?”

"A young girl beautiful as yourself, Undine." "Her name, Friedrich ?"

"La Villette, the celebrated dancer."

"What, sir! you presume to find a likeness between me and a common dancer? I feel mnch flattered by the compliment."

Bernhardt coloured, and his eyes flashed with anger. "Undine, I cannot ever allow you to speak of La Villette in that way. There is no better woman on earth than La Villette the dancer."

"At any rate," answered Undine sarcastically, "she seems to have a warm champion in my cousin; one would say you were in love with the pretty dancer; I wager she will soon be Madame Bernhardt."

"Ah, if heaven would let me find her!" said he, passionately. "She should be my wife before to-morrow's sun goes down-that is, if she would take me!"

"You do well to put in that last clause, cousin," said Undine, half laughing, and then changing her tone, she said-"what would you give me if I could find you La Villette?"

"You! impossible, Undine!

"Not quite impossible, cousin-I am Villette." "You!" he started back, and looked at her wildly.

She rose-laid her hand upon his shoulder as she had done once before, and looking earnestly into his face, she said softly:

"Friedrich, do you love me?"

"Villette, Villette! can I believe my eyes? is it really you?"

"Unbeliever! do you know this?" and she drew from her bosom the well-known diamond ring. He could no longer doubt; the mystery was explained. Bernhardt was a happy man that evening.

"Villette, will you be my wife?" asked he as they stood together an hour later in the twilight. "You forget, sir, that you are dependant upon the generosity of your aunt, who is one of the proudest of women, and would disown you were you to marry a girl so far beneath you."

"Villette, forget and forgive," said he, earnestly. Undine laughed. Whether she forgave nim or not I cannot say: but so much is certain, that

three weeks later Villette the dancer became Madame Friedrich Bernhardt-and that, with the full consent of the proud aunt.

THE END.

BY ELIZABETH TOWNBRIDGE.

If but in God's way we spend them-
Life's few, brief, passing days-
What matters it, when we end them,
Man's censure, or his praise?
Then, with patience and brave endurance,
Take all from the Father's hand,
And look, with a calm forbearance,
On the faults of this fleeting land.

If ever thy heart grow weary,
Thinking upon the past;
If ever thy spirit feel dreary,
For the future overcast;
Or, ever thy bold faith languish,
Fainting 'neath present pain,
Oh! think, in these hours of anguish,
No suffering is in vain.

What though the harsh world blame thee,
Judging by man's short day;
Though many with scorn may name thee,
As they pass on their idle way;
Heed not the world's detraction,
There is One who reads the soul,
Judging not by one poor action,
Whose clear Eye takes in the whole.

Does Fortune's fickle favours

Elude thy eager grasp,
As sun-rays the vain endeavours

Of a wondering infant's clasp?
Does earthly joy hold, mocking,
Her cup to your thirsty lip,
Yet, ever withhold it, scoffing,
As cager you stoop to sip?

Turn from earth's joys and pleasures—
On high, place thy hope and trust;
And ask for the goods and treasures
That cannot betray, or rust.
Are those far away whom thou fearest
Thou never again may'st see?
Has Death from thee snatched the dearest
That ever again may be ?-

Look to the Heaven above thee,

Cast from thee all grief and care,
And believe that with all who love thec
Will be bright re-union there!
There shall a peace supernal,

By your struggling soul, be found;
And there, with a joy eternal,

Shall your SUFFERING here be crown'd.
Then, with patience and brave endurance,
Take all from the Father's hand;
And look, with a calm forbearance,

On the faults of the Stranger Land;
For, if in God's ways we spend them-
Life's few brief passing days-
It matters not, when we end them,
Man's censure or his praise.

HAMPSTEAD AND THE HEATH.

(A Supplementary Chapter.)

BY CAROLINE A. WHITE.

We closed the last chapter of this series, some seven years since, with a moonlight reminiscence of Pope and Murray. The path we left them on led then, as now, in a straight line from Caen-wood to the Upper-flask, and was, as it continues to be, the high road from Hampstead to Highgate, Hornsey, and Barnet, and, consequently, much travelled by country-folks and others having business in these places.

It was all very well for "young bloods," who wore swords habitually-and, save in the instance of

"The city fop, who modish would appear,

And puts on belt and sword at Temple Bar." knew as a rule how to use them-to take such walks after nightfall; for, lovely as the massed woods were in this neighbourhood, Caen-wood, Bishop's-wood,Turner's-wood, and Church-wood all lying pretty close together, this prevalence of boscage had its drawbacks; and while the local stages were harrassed by less-noted highwaymen, that terror of the road, Dick Turpin, is heard of now at Hounslow, now at Hendon, and in the autumn and winter of 1736 (as the Grub-street Journal informs me) rides on the Highgate-road. These woody converts are the haunts of foot-pads, and cut-throats, and frequent robberies are committed by them. The Spaniards, always a popular place of resort (one of the few still remaining), as famous for its ales and good fellowship, with the bucolic inhabitants of Hampstead, as for its retirement, its garden, the fine views from the mount in it, the excellence of the wines, and the civility of its landlord with the visitors, has nightly perils in the path to and from it, notwithstanding that Mr. Turner's house, and two others, are close at hand.

Thus we learn, in the above-named journal, that, on the "last Sunday evening" (a late evening in October 1736), "between seven and eight o'clock, one Mr. Thomas Lane, a farrier of Hampstead, coming home from the Spaniard's, upon the Heath near the house called Mother Huff's, three men, in mean apparel, jumped out of the bushes and instantly laid hold of him, robbed him of forty-five shillings, and afterwards stripped him, tied him neck and heels, and made him fast to a tree, in which condition, he lay above an hour, till a woman coming by he cried out, and she released him. The villans bound him so hard about the wrist and legs that blood started in several places."*

In the following December, we read in the *Grub-street Journal, October 14th, 1737.

same journal, under the head of "Domestic News," "Died, on Sunday, in Holborn of wounds received from two footpads between Highgate and Hampstead, Mr. Thomas Wildey.'" And in the latter end of the next year the highways, had become so unsafe in the northern suburbs, that the gentlemen of Hackney formed a guard, and, armed with halbards, patrolled the road from six till ten at night.

It was better to fall into the hands of the redoubted Turpin himself than into those of foot-pads cruel as they were rapacious. He, on the other hand, affected a certain bonhommie in his proceedings, and loved best to disembarrass his patients of their belongings, without unnecessary violence. His wit seems to have been heavier than his hand-" You will soon be caught!" cried out an impotent but angry gentleman, one of two who, with several others, he had robbed on a Sunday of this year on the road between Hampstead and Highgate. "So I have thought myself," he returned, "but believe I am in no danger from you!"

Highwaymen and footpads, however, were not the only evil things the woods shaded, and the ponds hid at Hampstead. Suicides frequently hanged themselves in the former, while as yet (Captain Coram's petition not having met with the response he desired, and no foundling hospital existing save in the large heart of its benevolent projector), the wide, dark pool lying between the sister hamlets often bubbled up to the surface the hideous secret of some babe's foul murder.

In the year 1745, the year after Pope had laid down a life that, owing to his deformity and other causes, has been pronounced one long disease. I wonder if his more robustly constituted critics took this fact into consideration when sitting in judgment on the bitterness, irritability, and other weaknesses of the manof whom, by the way, the friends around his dying bed, observed, "that his humanity survived his understanding," and whom Gay said "he loved as his own soul." Think of fifty-six years' habitation of a misshapen, dwarfed, and feeble body, in which the owner could never have known the luxury of stretching himself free of physical depression, and say how many of us, under the same conditions, might not have dentated sharpest incisors instead of wisdom teeth!

In this year we find the builder's men in possession of Branch Hill, Hampstead, where Sir Thomas Clarke, Master of the Rolls, had a man

sion in the course of erection. This residence, | coffee-houses, and raffling shops, which had (North Court Hall as it was called), must have trebled their original numbers. added considerably at the time to the fixed respectability of the neighbourhood-whether we may say the same for it subsequently, when it was taken by Lord Chancellor Macclesfield, who some twenty-five years before had been impeached by the Commons, at the bar of the Upper House, and convicted of fraudulent practices, for which he was condemned to pay a fine of £30,000, with imprisonment till it was paid-is another question. The standard of morality had not hitherto heen very high at the Heath, and though some person in the crowd who had followed him on his way to the Tower, cried out "that Staffordshire had produced three of the greatest rascals in England, Jack Shepherd, Jonathan Wilde, and Tom Parker," the cry had ceased to echo long before the six weeks of his sojourn there had ended; and time, and more recent rascality, had somewhat shaded his lordship's association in this triumvirate, before he took up his residence at North Court Hall. He lived here for several years, and neither the fine air of the Heath, nor the salutary reputation of the waters, appear to have suffered in consequence.

This year, for ever historically memorable, saw Mr. Murray put to his purgation touching bis jacobite tendencies. The well-known predilections of his house for that of the Stuarts, his scarcely disguised sympathy with the victims of their loyalty to it, and that drinking of the Pretender's health upon his knees already alluded too, were all against him; yet, in the next year, when the heads of Lords Lovat, Kilmarnoch, and Balmarino, fell on the scaffold on Tower-hill, the clever Scotch lawyer maintained his social and legal status-and was raised, eight years later, to the post of AttorneyGeneral; and in 1756 to the peerage by the title of Lord Mansfield.

In this year, as has already been said, that "Paradise" of not over-" dainty devices," Belsize Park, closed for ever as a place of public amusement, though the final destruction of its fine gardens and stately avenue were reserved for our own times, many of the old elms retaining their "green crowns," less than a score of summers since, have fallen before the inevitable London builder. But while Belsize House, cleansed and garnished, affected honest airs, and the respectability of a private mansion, and other tunes than that of the "Belsize Minuet" (to which songs had been set) came into fashion, the hopes of the proprietor of North-end Wells, to which most of the amusements and much of the morality of its famous prototype and rival had been transplanted, began to expand. The reader may find them blatent in the pages of the newspapers of the period. And while the old Wells had its annual visitors (faithful to their belief in its restorative qualites, and Dr. Soame's regime) at the proper time of the year-from June to Michaelmas-the mere pleasure-seekers found their way to North-end Hall, and New Georgia, or patronised the taverns,

Looking over the obituaries in the newspapers and magazines of the period, I find the names of many persons of rank and wealth, who, hesitating either from fastidiousness or want of faith till too late, sought the remedial air of Hampstead only to die away from home. But the reviving popularity of the place is patent; so much so, that, when the question of repairing or rebuilding the old church came to be agitated, the petition of the minister, church-wardens, and inhabitants for pecuniary aid, set forth that the town of Hampstead, being a place of great resort, especially in the summer season, (and they might have said of Sundays), the said church, were it in a repairable condition, could not accommodate half the congregation. So the old square-towered, low, irregularly-built church gave place to the present structure. The ancient monuments and mural tablets were displaced, and several of them have not found their way back to the deposits whose sites they marked, and whose memory they were meant to perpetuate. The old church was taken down in the spring of 1745, and the modern one dedicated to St. John, consecrated by Dr. Gilbert, Bishop of Llandaff, October 8th, 1847.

Evidently Hampstead is regaining its vogue with a more respectable class of visitors than the supporters of that wicked Belsize; and North-end and South-end, as well as the eldest off-shoot of the town, West-end, rejoice in the return of visitors, for whose accommodation the little weather-boarded houses are not sufficiently numerous; but the building of them goes on briskly; so that three years later (1750) we find West-end numbering forty dwellings.

While the Wells, and the town, offered, as we have seen, ample resources for the idle, the gay, and the valetudinarian, of whom the majority of the visitors were composed, to the poet and painter, those lovers of natural beauty by prescription, the scenic beauty of the Heath, and the varied and lovely landscapes that surrounded it, fair transcripts of which have been preserved for us in the paintings of Gainsborough and Constable, must have possessed the same attractiveness as in our own times.

One can quite understand the charm of such a neighbourhood to men like Murray, and subsequently Mr. Erskine and the great Lord Chatham, who, when suffering the agonies of gout (and sometimes it is suspected, when only making a pretext of them, to escape from political vexations), was wont to resort hither, sometimes coming all the way from Richmond to find a night's rest at North-end.

Such a retreat, to such men, must have proved in effect the counterpart of fine music to the mind of Emerson, "a bath and a medicine." But though its beauty and freshness (and apart from the recognized places of amusement), the solitude and repose of the upper Heath, and the outlying environs of Hampstead, did tempt many learned men, and men of poetical tempera

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