ten thousand two hundred and sixty; and sixty times that is six hundred and fifteen thousand, six hundred; and three times that is one million, eight hundred and forty-six thousand, eight hundred gallons, to a pailful. Check the calculation, and I believe you will find it is right. We two are the only skaters on this noble sheet of ice, which we find to be in excellent condition. Away we fly, losing the sound of each other's voices, in the very midst of animated converse. Mr. Thompson (as we still call him) has gone to his house, having left a strict injunction with us, as soon as we should feel tired, to follow. For two hours and a half do Fisher and I compete in graceful daring. We rest at times, and find leisure to remark how seemingly remote from town is this lake district of Newing ton. As the dusk steals on, the illusion grows apace. Really, when green boughs help to shut in some portions of the scene, now open to a halfbuilt neighbourhood this must be a charming retirement in which to dwell, so near all that we may want with London. Even now, when the trees are all bare, and when the sedge is withered from the lake, and no birds sing, the spot is wonderfully picturesque. We are the more inclined to think so, and to be on general good terms with it, because we have been so pleasantly welcomed to its precincts. It is a particular source of delight that we should have this luxurious expanse of ice all to ourselves. Fisher observes that a report of the number of skaters on the Newington Reservoir ought to be sent to the daily papers, for publication among similar returns. A certain relation of mine who made poetry, which Mr. Wakley the coroner sat upon long before there was the least prospect of its being dead, and found to be trash, made some poetry once about skating. I had turned to it but now for a "crib," as it contains not a few handy bits of description; but as it is just possible that the passage may be remembered and brought against me by someone of the many thousand readers of the Welcome Guest, I have, on second thoughts, resolved to give the lines in the direct way of quotation. And here they are: "When the sun Was set, and, visible for many a mile, And woodland pleasures-the resounding horn, Of melancholy, not unnoticed, while the stars Into a silent bay, or sportively Fisher, I don't know whether you agree with me or not, but I think these lines beautiful. I feel much better after them. I derive from them that which the Poet, by his divine gift, was able to derive straight from Nature-sweet, holy peace. Ah! surely it is good to leave for a while the vivid poetry of the present day, which fires and rouses, but so seldom soothes!-to leave it, I say, for the calm, meditative, devotional simplicity of the philosophic old Lakist; with him to quit sometimes the "tumultuous throng;" with him to look through nature up to nature's God; with him to wonder, contemplate, adore. Window-panes even now blaze through the twilight, as in the lovely scene I have copied bodily into my panorama. We miss the crags and cliffs and precipices; we miss, too, the distant hills; but we have still the shadowy banks, the leafless trees, the wide glassy plain, the orange sky, the stars, the silence, the darkness, and the cold. Fisher, the brute, has shot right off, in the direction of Mr. Thompson's hospi table ray; and I see him no more till, having followed him in the course of half an hour or so, I find him comfortably esconced in Mr. Thompson's easiest chair, sipping Mrs. Thompson's choicest hyson, and listening complacently to Miss Thompson's prettiest warbling with a pianoforte accompaniment. Fisher, this is mean of you! I did not suppose you capable of such conduct. Never mind; I am half an hour hungrier than you are, and shall revenge myself, as Mr. Buckstone promises to do in some farce or other, on the "victuals." A good, hearty, north-country meal is spread before us; none of your cockneyfied "meat teas," but such variety of farinaceous fare as best befits the social cup of tea that follows not too hastily upon dinner. Specially to be distinguished in my reminiscences of that comfortable repast is the Yorkshire cake. It was perfection. So were some other things which I could enumerate, in connection with this host of ours, whom, for the mysterious but excellent reason already hinted at, we have agreed to name Mr. Thompson. Completely isolated, at a distance of less than four miles from the busiest part of the city, his abode has every characteristic of a cottage on one of the smaller lakes of Westmoreland. Nor let it be supposed that I am forcing a comparison. These pools, fed by the New River at Newington, are sufficiently large to attract in considerable bodies the rarest of our English water-fowl. Trophies of Mr. at some distant time, to furnish an epitaph on Mr. Thompson, there would be a line to this effect-" He made his own skates." Thompson's skill with the trigger are displayed of veneration. Should Fisher be called upon, in the snug parlour where Fisher and I have satiated ourselves with tea and appropriate fixings. There are several stuffed specimens of the cormorant, besides the two I have just mentioned; and there are yet more numerous examples of that bird of northern habits and tropical plumage, the kingfisher. As for commoner fowl of the web-footed sorts, they are abundant in this watery region. On so large a scale is the purely artificial face of the New River Company's domain, that it approaches in character to a dependency of the natural kingdom. Talk, principally on the subject of engineering, follows tea; not unaccompanied with other fluids, and tobacco. Drawings are brought forward; and among them is a diagram to scale of the latest American locomotive, which may safely be pronounced a screamer. Some further account of the works in connection with the Reservoir is incidentally given by Mr. Thompson. The means of filtration, and of storing the water in the short interval that occurs after it has been filtered and before it is sent flowing into tanks, butts, and cisterns, over the principal division of the metropolis, are set forth in concise terms. The filter-bed is a smaller reservoir, the bottom of which is covered with transverse pipes, perforated on the upper side. Over them is laid coarse gravel, sixteen inches deep. Alternate layers, each of the same thickness, of medium and fine gravel, and of three kinds of sand, varying also in their degrees of fineness, form the superstructure of this bed. There are, it will thus be seen, six distinct strata, the whole being a mass eight feet in depth, which the water must percolate before it enters the pipes through the holes a-top, and is conducted to the covered store-tank. The time of parting has arrived. One more glass, Mr. Thompson and ladies, to our better acquaintance, and-Au Reservoir! The joke is as harmless, and not more vulgar, perhaps, than the element which it includes. We have not come hither to show you how original as well as witty we can be. But we may as well resume our skates, and cross the ice on our way home. Now we hear that Mr. Thompson is an adept in the sport, and desires to accompany us. That gimlet is once more produced by Fisher, and, having been put to its use on the heels of three pairs of boots, is artfully left by him in an obscure corner, that he may have a pretence for calling very shortly, and again forgetting to take it away. Mr. Thompson's skates, be sure, are of his own manufacture, and beat ours all to pieces. He made them at the engine-house one morning, and wore them the same day. Evidently, it passes the imagination of Fisher to conceive the possibility of any man's making a pair of skates. Such a thing has never occurred to his mind; so that we may pardon the approach to incredulity in the tone with which he questions Mr. Thompson concerning some points of detail in the workmanship. Apparently satisfied with the straightforward answers of our host, Fisher relapses into a grave silence. It is the silence When on them, Mr. Thompson gives you no idea of a man in imminent want of his epitaph. He has modestly informed us that he makes no pretension to the florid style of skating, but that he can "go a-head." This he certainly can do, as we find on attempting to keep up with him. The stars are all the light we have, but the ice bears firmly in all parts of our Newington lake, and there is a clear field, were we thirty instead of three. From end to end we fly in a straight line through the centre, and back again, and once more to and fro, before we set out fairly on the last heat. This being accomplished, we unfasten our skates, and bid farewell to Mr. Thompson, leaving him to cross the ice alone. LEIGH HUNT'S AUTOBIOGRAPHY. NOTHING in the way of personal literature ever gave us so much pleasure as we find in those reminiscences of Leigh Hunt, which not only his death, but a certain just re-action, dictated, as it seems to us, by honour, truth, and some degree of manly "desire to blot," has called forth. The new volume of his "Autobiography" contains an Introduction, by his eldest son, large excerpts of which have been widely diffused through the press. But this Introduction ought to be read straight through, by all who are gratefully mindful of the kindly wisdom and sweet fancies they have gathered from the books of Leigh Hunt. The testimony borne by Mr. Thornton Hunt to his father's virtues, and in particular to the scrupulous veracity, which was a prominent point in his character, must not be invalidated by any thought of filial affection. The nice accuracy of statements for which the father was remarkable, is a faculty which appears to have been inherited by the son. Beautiful and touching as is every line of this little memoir, it is yet as calmly critical throughout as if it had been written by an alien in blood and an opponent in ideas. It is curious to reflect that the son, who stands forward now as the strong and temperate vindicator of his father's memory, is the "little patient boy" at the side of whose sick bed was written the nobly tender poem inscribed to "T. L. H." Referring to that sombre period in their lives, the father tells how his sleeping child cried out, in a dream of hide-and-seek, at which the two had played in their narrow prison garden, "No-I'm not lost; I'm found!" The passage, occurring in this same "Autobio graphy," has the following addition, which might be affixed to the poem I have mentioned: —“I have lived to see him a man of forty, and wherever he is found, a generous hand and a great understanding will be found together." | Another flight of years, some eight or ten in number, has gone by since those words were written. We do not think the truth has been weakened or worn away. THE WOMAN IN GREY. A CRIMEAN EPISODE. abled him to see the woman's features. The most astounding thing was the immense grey beard the figure wore. Pat, as a traveller, was accustomed to strange sights, but this surpassed all. In a second, though, the truth flashed upon him, and he made ready for action. "Come hear, my darlint," Pat said, artfully, but the woman did not seem inclined to obey. The moonlight had evidently destroyed the stranger's calculations. She fell back a step or two, and then turned to fly. But it was too late; Pat was after her with a tiger's bound, and, impeded by her petticoats, she stumbled THE barren plateau, on which the allied armies were encamped before Sebastopol, was naturally suggestive of many superstitious fancies among the troops. The outlying sentinel, with his eye at the uttermost degree of tension, to detect some crouching spy, eventually saw imaginary forms around him, and the darkness became peopled with the denizens of another world. Many stories of ghostly manifestations were current, very few of them possessing any other foundation and nearly fell. In a second, however, she rethan the imaginary fancy of the credulous soldier; but there are one or two authenticated stories of ghosts, one of which I will tell here, as I heard it from the lips of an officer of an Irish regiment, who was conversant with all the details. A soldier, on being relieved from guard one winter's night, swore stoutly that he had been haunted during the whole period of duty by a woman in grey, who made signals to him, which he, good Catholic as he was, declined to follow. He was laughed at; but when the sentry on duty the next night told the same story, the most incredulous began to believe. When a week had passed away, and each night the same occurrence happened, the argument was so infected with alarm, that the captain of the day thought it high time to interfere. For this purpose he summoned to his counsels one Patrick Leary, a Colour Sergeant, who was popularly supposed to fear neither man nor devil. The Captain lent the non-commissioned a revolver, bidding him fire if he found it absolutely necessary, but to do his best to capture the woman alive. Mr. Pat took a hearty drain of rum and went on sentry-go, much to the relief of the men warned for that night's duty. It was a dark misty night when Pat commenced his duty round, and it was enough to make any man feel uncomfortable. The gallant Pat, however, so long as the effect of the rum lasted, whistled the "Night on which Larry was stretched" sotto voce, stamped his feet to restore the chilled circulation. Somehow or another, though, he began to grow very lonely, and almost wished that the ghost would come, if only to bear him company. His wishes were soon fulfilled, for, hearing a slight sound, and raising his rifle to his shoulder, he saw a dusky form gibbering at him in the distance, Pat began rooping and mowing in reply, and the woman, apparently encouraged by this, drew nearer. Pat laid his firelock on the ground, as if to encourage the other, but placed his hand carefully on his revolver. There was nothing like being prepared, but if it were a woman-the thought fairly turned the honest Sergeant's mind. Ere long, the figure approached so near that Pat was enabled to challenge covered, and turned on the Sergeant with a most uncomfortable-looking yataghan. "Tear an' 'ouns'," the Sergeant shouted, "the woman's the devil. I can stand nails, but these are rather too sharp." A low mocking laugh burst from the stranger's lips, as he tried to get between Pat and his musket. But the Sergeant was on his guard; pretending to fly, he managed to bear down within grasp of the woman, and caught at her capote. The next moment the yataghan had passed through the fleshy part of his arm, but he did not relax his hold. He grappled with the stranger, but meeting with an unexpected resistance, he drew his revolver. The stranger clutched at it with frantic energy, and a terrible struggle ensued, which terminated by the pistol suddenly exploding; and the stranger fell to the ground with a groan, while Pat, weakened by the loss of blood, followed the example. The quarterguard, aroused by the shot, soon hurried up to the spot, and both were borne into camp. The stranger was placed in a hut, and a surgeon fetched, and it was evident that the ghost in grey was a finelooking old man. He was, however, declared to be in a very dangerous state, for the ball had passed through his lungs. His condition was kindly explained to him, and he told his story readily enough. τ His name was Constantine, and he was by birth a Pole. Having been engaged in the revolution of 1831, he was saved from the death that fell to the lot of his comrades, to endure a worse fate. He and his family were transferred to Russia, and he was forced to perform the most degrading duties in the secret police. For twenty-three years he had endured the humiliation, for the sake of his wife and child, but he little reckoned what was in store for him. When the war with the allies became imminent, he was ordered with his family to Sebastopol, for he was a perfect French and German scholar; and when the campaign commenced, he was compelled to risk his life nightly, by going out to spy the progress the enemy made. Death stared bim in the face either way: if he refused the sentence passed upon him at Warsaw still remained in force, which, if he obeyed, he was in hourly risk of detection. Why not desert, you will ask? but the Russian police were Machiavels. His daughter Eudoxia, a lovely girl of three and twenty, was taken into the Governor's house, ostensibly to protect her from the horrors of the siege; but Constantine was given fully to understand that her life depended on his fidelity. The poor father was sorely dis No. 19. tracted; his hatred of the Russians was counter sentence would be reversed, and he would be balanced by his love for his daughter, the only free to go where he pleased with his daughter. treasure he possessed in the world, for his wife Maddened by the thought of freedom, Constan had succumbed under the privations and ex- tine attired himself in feminine garb, hoping posure of a winter journey across the steppe. thus to attract some sentinel from his post. Need I say that the father triumphed over the He would then wound him, though not danger. man? Constantine was a nightly visitor to ously, and drag him into the Russian lines. In our lines, and by the cleverness with which he fact, it grew a monamania with Constantine, played the character of a French or English that he must catch a Briton alive; but, unfortu linesman, long escaped detection. nately, in Sergeant Leary, he caught a tartar. At length, a dreadful ordeal was offered him; he was told that if he could only induce an English soldier to desert, from whom some valuable information might be obtained, his Such was the story he told, and which aroused considerable interest among the hearers. It reached the ears of Lord Raglan himself, who visited the prisoner, and bade him be of good cheer: no harm should befal him. | bound his flesh-wound up, and laughed at But Constantine shook his head sadly; of what was at work in the front parallel. He was value was life to him now, when he was separated sitting in the trench, smoking a very dirty short from his Eudoxia? I need not say that every pipe, and growling inwardly, when his wound kindness was shown the poor fellow, and the gave him a twitch. It was a lovely night, and doctors vied with each in their attention to double caution had to be exercised, for the him. But there was little chance of saving Russians were all alive, and seemed shooting for him: the wretched conical ball was apparently wager at the men in the trenches. Pat philo embedded in his back bone, and there was no sophically took off his shako, and placed it on the prospect of moving it. top of the earthwork. In five minutes he took it down again, and lo! there were three Minić balls clean through it. Pardon, reader, such a common-place story, but the end is not yet. a "Whirrah!" said Pat, as he comically sur Two days later, Serjeant Leary, who had veyed the damage, "here's a patent ventilator." "Arrah, your honour, and do you suppose that those dirty bullets would go through my head? It's all very easy with a regulation shako, for we know what that is made of; but an Irishman's head is formed of stronger materials." A suppressed laugh ran along the trenches, but Pat was not at all put out. "Boys!" he remarked, with solemn pathos, "since the unlucky day that I landed in this filthy country, not a night has passed that I havn't put at least a pint of bad spirrits into this carcass of mine, and there is not a man among you can say he has seen me the worst for it. It wants a purty daisunt head to stand the raki we get up here, for it would take the roof off a house; so I think my head is safe against a ball sent by Russian powder. Hilloh! what's their game now, I wondher ?" The men jumped up involuntarily, for the firing from the Russian guns had grown tremendous. Forgetting all caution, they sprang on the breastwork, naturally supposing that the enemy meditated a sortie. They were in perfect safety, however; all the bullets were at present directed at a single figure, which was crossing the open at frantic speed. Our men cheered heartily, as the stranger pressed on, utterly reckless of the shower of lead, and some two or three fellows, Leary at their head, rushed out to rescue him. Great was the Sergeant's surprise though, when he recognised in the stranger the Woman in Grey. But there was no time for inquiry. The Russians had opened all their batteries, as if disgusted at not bringing down their victim, and for an hour the very earth shook with the vibration. Suddenly the fire died away, as we did not condescend to reply to it; the moon retired behind a cloud in disgust, and there was silence for the rest of the night. In the meanwhile, Sergeant Leary had convinced himself that this Mr. Jones was not that Mr. Jones: the stranger, instead of wielding a yataghan, employed a far more dangerous weapon in a pair of the most lovely eyes ever seen. Then, in a most seductive voice (Leary swore afterwards that he understood every word, but don't believe him) she asked after her father's welfare. She spoke in French, and, at any rate the officer of the watch comprehended her, and sent a party with her at once to head quarters. Lord Raglan no sooner heard of the heroism she had displayed, in order to join her father, than he gave directions that she should be treated with all possible kindness, and have free access to the prisoner. Her presence was better than all the doctor's stuff to Constantine; he rapidly recovered, but Eudoxia's duties were not over then. By some stupid mistake, Leary managed to run his renowned head against a Minié ball, which sadly injured his personal appearance, and for some reason or another, Eudoxia insisted on nursing him. It may be that his repeated visits to her father had touched her heart, but what do I know? All I can say is, that I nursed Sergeant Leary's youngest girl the other day, when I went in for an ounce of tobacco, at and the damaging championship of erudite Dr. Farmer were paraded in the duly dull old gentlemanly way; so likewise were the opposite reasonings of Drayton, Fuller, Digges, Denham, Hales of Eton-immortalised by other lines than his own-Milton, Dryden, and Dennis. Well, this kind of thing had gone on for a long time, to the satisfaction of each speaker in his turn, and of course to the convincing of nobody, when a person present who had hitherto kept silence put in a quiet remark, a little beside the question perhaps, but rather calculated to exhibit that question's futility. Of the learning of Shakspeare he professed to know little and to care less. Said he-" Shakspeare is learning." Precisely so. There was a great statesman who was not afraid or ashamed to confess that his only authority on a point of historical moment was Shakspeare. But this is not altogether to the purpose. It does not import a very great deal to know that Shakspeare read attentively, and, with reference to pure facts, repeated exactly. True enough, he did both. True enough, his plays embrace a vast amount of the particular knowledge that a tutor might range under the head of useful information. But, wholly apart from this, Shakspeare is learning. To have him by heart, to keep a mental edition of him as a familiar text-book, to make him proxy for the utterance of our thoughts, nay, for |