summer night and early morning, to receive, as he feared, his mother's last whispered blessing. Well, it may be, that he should not have run away from school; but, dear gentle reader, think of poor Bertie as favourably as you can. The fault, if fault it was, was quickly followed by its appropriate punishment. Joy, joy! The crisis is past, and the danger over. The mother knows her boy now, and puz zles herself in trying to remember when the holidays began, and puzzles Bertie too, by asking many questions which, at that time, he must not answer. Then, again, she sinks into a slumber, sweet and reviving like the sleep of infancy; and Bertie, with glad heart and streaming eyes, leaves her in charge of the snuffy nurse-but a kind clever body, in spite of snuff-box and camphor-bag Harry: "Not motherless; not motherless! The doctor says there is hope for us. She won't die now-dear, dear, mother!" After night comes morning; but it was not a morning without clouds that slowly dawned upon the Graftons. True, the mother was raised-miraculously, the doctor said, and marvellously, certainly Mr. C. was not very sorry, I think, though he did express his deep regret the next day, in a note to Mrs. Grafton, that her son's conduct at school, and especially his last act and deed, ren--while he carries the glad tidings to Lotté and dered it both unnecessary and improper that he -Mr. C.-should take any further interest in his future advancement. And Mr. Robinson, the new partner, was not very sorry either; for he had an eye on the promised desk for his son Sam. It may be, also, that Bertie was not very sorry when he opened the letter, which his mother was too ill to read, and found that thenceforward, so far as C. and Robinson were concerned, he was to be master of his own actions; and that his box of clothes and books-concerning which he had had grave doubts whether he should see them again, having given them up indeed in philosophical resignation, supposing that they would be retained in part liquidation of his last half-year's fees at "the Academic Institution"would be punctually forwarded to the Grove by the London carrier, carriage not paid. Sorrow! alas, there was one sorrow in Bertie's heart which swallowed up every smaller, meaner grief. Reader, have you ever watched by the bedside of a brother, sister, husband, wife, child, or parent, all but hopeless, yet hoping against hope. that life would be spared and health restored? And have you not felt, in that sickening anguish and agony of spirit, that if but this one prayer could be granted, how easily a double weight of mere worldly care and anxiety could be borne? What was it to Bertie Grafton, when his weeping sisters hung upon his neck, and sobbed out their orphan griefs; or when he looked upon his mother's unconscious, meaningless, restless, altered countenance, and vainly strove to call her recollection for one moment to himself, her only son; or when the physician, with pitying accents, bade him prepare himself for the worst, or when the commiserating landlady, to raise the boy's spirits, called him aside to whisper in his ears how much his poor mamma put her in mind of her own dear husband, who died, ten years ago next autumn, of just such a fever;-what was it to Bertie then, that a dark black cloud had arisen in another quarter, and that disappointment and penury seemed to be his allotted portion through life? Oh, if she might but live, how easily could these be borne; or rather, how penitently would he retrace his erring steps, where conscience told him he had erred! how resolutely he would trample down his despicable pride! how manfully he would begin the struggle of life! and how perseveringly he would thenceforward-God helping him-carry on the conflict till difficulties had vanished! And thus, in sadness and dread, did one day after another pass away, while nothing short of actual force could have removed the boy from the infected chamber, into which none beside a hireling nurse, duly fortified with snuff and camphor, the doctor, and himself, rarely dared to intrude. from the brink of the grave; and, as marvellously, neither Bertie nor his sisters, nor Mrs. Davis, nor Mary the maid, sickened with the fever. It was fumigation and ventilation that kept it off, Mrs. Davis said; it was snuff and camphor, the nurse said; and whether there were more or less of virtue in either of these disinfectants, the plague was stayed: only the poor canary sickened and died. Nevertheless, it was no bright hopeful day yet. Mrs. Grafton's illness had terribly diminished her slender hoard, and her occupation was gone; while poor Bertie-ah well! his mother could not find it in her heart to blame him. And then, when strength and energy were slowly returning, came Mrs. Davis the landlady, hoping and trusting that Mrs. Grafton would not be inconvenienced; but she had some thoughts of changing her condition. Her life was very lonely, and Mr. Somebody or other, whom she had known a good many years, off and on, was very kind, and had made her a handsome offer, which she had made up her mind at last to accept. And she should soon want her first floor, she thought; and so if Mrs. Grafton-she would not hurry her on any account-but if Mrs. Grafton could suit herself with other lodgings-and so on. There was no help for it; and, a month later, the Graftons had not only left the Grove, but had disappeared from the neighbourhood. Soon their names were almost forgotten; or if, by any ac cident, they were recalled to the memory of the friends of their prosperous days, it was-"Ah, poor Grafton; he did things in pretty good style: a pity he was so gay. Widow and children left badly off, very much reduced, poor things. What became of them, I wonder!" One day, a middle-aged man entered the dusty bustling warehouse of C. and Robinson. He had the confident bearing of a man who knew his own value, commercially, and the quick bustling air of one who appreciated, to a fraction of a minute, the value of time also. But, in spite of these, there was a subdued tone, amounting almost to hesitancy, with which, after glancing around him impatiently, he addressed a young man who seemed to have some connection with the business, and demanded to speak with Mr. Grafton. 66 Grafton, sir!" replied the other. "There is no one of that name here." "I mean the Mr. Grafton of the firm," continued the stranger "one of the partners." "This is C. and Robinson's house," said the young man, rather loftily. "My father is Mr. Robinson, sir; if you want to see him on business, he is in the counting-house: there is no Mr. Grafton now; he died years ago." "Ha! I hadn't heard of this; it is many years since I was in town. Dead!" he exclaimed in an accent of concern; "I did not expect this. But what of his family? Mr. Grafton was married, and had a son, I think." "Oh yes," said the youth, and smiled know ingly; "there was a son. I knew something about him." "Well! what about him ?" "Can't tell, sir; know nothing of him. course, it was nothing to our firm.' Of "Ha! I see. Can you tell me anything about Mrs. Grafton, then? What became of her? Where is she to be found? Do you know what her circumstances are ?" "Can't tell, I am sure, sir," replied the young man, rather tired, it appeared, of the catechetical conversation, for he turned on his heel and left the stranger to his cogitations, which were soon interrupted, however, by the approach of a warehouseman, who civilly inquired if he were a buyer. I am not sure," said the stranger, and then added; "No, not to-day, I believe. I came expecting to find Mr. Grafton; but he is dead, I hear. Can you give me any information about his family ?" No; the person addressed had heard of Mr. Grafton certainly, but it was before he was in the house that Mr. Grafton was a partner. He couldn't tell; perhaps Mr. Robinson could give him the information he sought. "Robinson! wasn't he the traveller for the firm, years ago?" Yes; the warehouseman knew that: Mr. Robinson still travelled sometimes, but he was at home now. Would the inquisitive gentleman please to step into the counting-house? he would find him there, and Mr. C. also. An odd man, this curious stranger. He took a few steps towards the counting-house, then turned, muttered something about "no consequence--not worth while,” and hurried towards the entrancedoor of the warehouse. A grey-headed porter was in the way, packing up a box, over which he stooped. The porter looked up, and the stranger looked down. "Mr. Haycraft!" exclaimed the former, with a start of surprise. "Ha! Ephraim; you here still ?" said the stranger in a low tone. "Hush! you needn't say you know me. Don't tell Mr. C. I have been Great changes, Ephraim, since you know when." "Yes, sir; and none the better; 'new lords, new laws, they say." in. "So Mr. Grafton is dead ?" "Ay, sir; and his poor family-ah well, the wheel will turn round; 'tis up with you now, Mr. Haycraft, I reckon, by the looks of it." Pretty well for that, Ephraim; and you ?" "Much of a muchness, as it always was: stuck on to the axle, Mr. Haycraft; so 'tisn't far up nor far down neither," said the old porter. The stranger dipped his hand into his pocket, and, in less time than it takes to tell, a sovereign was in Ephraim's palm. "True, I want to know about them; more than half my business in town was to see Mr. Grafton; and if you can tell me anything about his family-" 66 "I think I can, sir, a little; but there's Mr. C. coming this way; and, somehow, he doesn't like to have the Graftons talked about; besides, if you don't want to see him-" "True; it mightn't be pleasant: not that I should care much about it; but it may as well be avoided. But I must know something more about the Graftons: come to the coffee-room this evening, Ephraim, and we'll have a chat together. I will be sure to be in the way:" and the speaker stepped out of the doorway into the narrow lane. It is as true as though an alderman had said it, that there often are passages in men's lives that would not tell well for their characters if ruthlessly dragged to the light: deeds, it may be, long repented of, but which remain in memory, sticking there like burrs. "If I had had my legal deserts," said a gentleman of unspotted character and exemplary integrity, in our hearing, "I should have been transported, or might have been hung, years ago." This might be a peculiar case; and whether the speaker were strictly literal or somewhat hyperbolical in his self-condemnation, was best known to himself and ONE other. But the fact we have stated is the same. Ask that ermined judge to look back through the vista of half a century, and say whether the young criminal he has just sentenced to imprisonment be, all circumstances taken into account, more deserving of this punishment than he himself once would have been; or the fervent denouncer of vice, whether his own hands were always pure. Ask that fond and faithful husband, or that careful, watchful parent, whether there be not, in some nook and corner of his memory, transactions of ancient date, which he would not dare to reveal to the partner of his bosom, or the children of his affection. Ask any man you meet, if there be not in his recollection the dark shadow of some guilty thing of which he is now ashamed; whether there be not some human presence he uniformly seeks to shun, because that one other beside himself is cognizant of a sin or disgrace which is deeply ingrained in his history, like some dreadful secret written with sympathetic ink on paper, which needs only a simple contact with an antagonist element to bring out again the fatal handwriting, so that he who runs may read. In a large town in one of the distant counties of England, Mr. Haycraft stood high among its wellto-do merchants. In a comparatively short space of time, and yet, step by step, he had raised himself, by industry and integrity, combined with much native shrewdness and aided by favourable circumstances, from positive obscurity and a subordinate situation, to wealth and extraordinary influence. He had entered into business, had prospered, had married into a wealthy family, and thus extended the sphere by enlarging the means of his busy operations. He had become a public character, had filled a high municipal office with credit and renown, and, it may be, was looking to something still higher. In his private capacity he was a liberal employer and a generous friend. There was a secret in his history. Subtract twenty years, or rather more, from the life of this middle-aged man, or blot them out of mind, and he is young again. In that countinghouse, from which he just now turned away, he stood on one particular day-a day never to be erased from his memory-a defaulter. The proofs were as clear as daylight; and he had tremblingly confessed his guilt, and cast himself on the mercy of his employers. He had broken trust; the amount of his defalcation was large or small, according to the light in which it might be viewed; but this made no difference-the guilt of the dishonesty was the same. There were palliating circumstances, it is true. It was, he said and knew, and his employers believed it to be, his first departure from integrity: he had been suddenly and sorely tempted, and as suddenly overcome: he had intended to make secret restitution if the crime had remained undiscovered. But all this would not have saved him from an ignominious exposure, degradation, and ruin. "This is all very well, and very pretty, sir," said Mr. C., after listening quietly to the young man's penitent confession, and passionate prayer for forbearance; "but I, for my part, make it a rule never to overlook a first offence. Keep what you have to say for another time and place; it is lost here." The senior partner was absent; the culprit turned an appealing, supplicating look to Mr. Grafton, who had not long been a partner: the young men had formerly been companions, if not bosom friends. "You don't know what you are talking about, my dear sir," replied the elder partner, blandly and coldly; "it isn't the amount, Mr. Grafton, it is the principle of the thing. I tell you, as I told Mr. Haycraft just now, I never forgive a first offence of this sort-never;" and saying this, Mr. C. left the counting-house. There was a door, seldom used, which led from the counting-house into a small alley at the rear of the premises. The key was in the lock, and in a moment Mr. Grafton had turned it and opened the door. "I am doing a mad thing, Haycraft," he said; "but if you remain here another minute your fate | is sealed. I know Mr. C. better than you do: make your escape while you can; and, if you get clear off, come to my house this evening:-it is your only chance," he added, seeing the young man hesitate-" go." The culprit did not wait for another bidding, and Mr. Grafton was alone when his partner returned with the porter Ephraim and a policeman. What afterwards transpired is only to be conjectured; but as it was a principle with Mr. C. never to forgive, it is not improbable that the breach thus opened between himself and Mr. Grafton was never entirely healed. But, however this might be, the defaulter escaped, and kept the hastily-made appointment with his principal. As the friend of her husband, he was introduced to Mrs. Grafton, as she sat nursing her first-born infant son. After she had retired, the young husband wrote a note, and put it into the hands of the fugitive. "You will not stay in London," he said; "that is out of the question. You had better start at once, by the night coach, to . Here is a letter to Mr. He will either give or find employment for you. I have said no more than is needful; no one need know of your disgrace, and your character is, in a great measure, in your own hands. It is an unwise thing I am doing, perhaps; but I trust you." The rescued man wrung his benefactor's hand. "You shall never har e cause to repent this kindness," he said. An hour or two later and Haycraft was on the coach, equipped for the journey, and replenished in purse, by the generosity of his young employer. Once after that they met; and Mr. Grafton was able to congratulate himself that, for once, he had acted from impulse against the dictates of his bet ter judgment, or rather of mercantile caution. With him had died his share of the secret. We restore the twenty years, and Mr. Haycraft is again a middle-aged, prosperous man. Evening is come, and he is in deep conference with old Ephraim. It wasn't his business, the grey-headed porter said; but it was plain enough that, when poor Mr. Grafton died and sorry enough he was, whatever others might be there were sad changes in his family. Wasn't there the sale? and didn't the widow have to go into lodgings? He knew something about it, for the next Christmas, or there abouts, he was sent there with a parcel from the old gentleman, the senior partner, and then he asked a few questions of the woman of the house, as was natural; and he was told that poor Mrs. Grafton had to go out every day, rain or shine, teaching; and would she have done that if she hadn't been poor? Then, there was master Bertie; it wasn't any secret that he had been sent to school by the firm because his mother was too poor to pay for it herself; and he would have been cared for further, no doubt, if the old gentleman hadn't retired from business; for though he was roughspoken, and was a good deal under Mr. C.'s influence, he had a kindly feeling towards poor Mr. Grafton's family; but his going away made all the difference. "But I understood from the youth I spoke to that young Grafton misbehaved himself at school, and thus lost the favour of the partners." "All a bag of moonshine, Mr. Haycraft, begging your pardon. The boy heard, and true enough it was, by all accounts, that his mother was ill, and like to die; and when he begged and prayed to be let go to see her, his master wouldn't listen to it, and so he just took what you used to call French leave, Mr. Haycraft. That's the long and short of it; and no great harm neither, I think. But it just did as an excuse for casting him off; and if there hadn't been that, in my opinion there would have been some other reason found." "And since then--for that must have been some time ago-" 66 Six years, Mr. Haycraft." Well, after that, what became of the boy and his mother and sisters? The poor widow did not die, I trust ?" 46 "No, sir, I heard that she got well again; for one day, I was out that way, and thinks I, I'll call and ask about the family, as I had been there before; and then I was told that they had left that part of London altogether, and were as poor as poor could well be, the woman of the house where they lodged was afraid; and a nice decent-spoken woman she was, though she seemed in some sort of trouble herself, I thought; but that was no business of mine." It was not much more that Ephraim had to tell, except that, after much research in a huge, bloated, time-blackened, leather-bound repository-something resembling a memorandum book, which Mr. Haycraft dimly remembered as part and parcel of the old porter-the direction of Mrs. Davis was recovered; and thither, the next morning, Mr. Haycraft hurried, to gain, if possible, additional intelligence respecting the past history and present retreat of his benefactor's family. THE ROOF OF THE WORLD. THE "world's end" is a title somewhat commonly applied with us to strange out-of-the-way places, where nature's aspect is unmistakeably wild and desolate, bare rocks forming the surface and protruding from it in uncouth masses, unenlivened by the appearance of verdure, unoccupied by the songbirds, and rarely conversant for any lengthened period with the presence of man. We have visited two or three sites of this description, locally distinguished by the epithet mentioned, apparently doomed by dreariness, unconquerable sterility, stern and savage features, to be for ever cut off from the economy of social life. The phrase has travelled with the race and language to far remote districts, and been attached to corresponding places beyond the Atlantic and behind the blue mountains of Australia. But we are only aware of one instance of the application of the title at the head of paper. It refers to no imaginary region, but to a physical reality; nor is it in the slightest degree a fantastic denomination. The roof of a dwelling, with its overtopping chimneys, is its highest point, and forms a water-parting, the rain dripping off from it in opposite directions. Such is the Bam-i-duniah, or "Roof of the World," the local name of a portion of Central or High Asia, otherwise called the table-land of Pamir. This is an elevated plain, at the height of 15,600 feet this above the sea, which appears to be the highest in Asia of the same extent, or in any part of our globe. The locality is a remarkable one, dreary in its aspect, and hard to climb, on account of the elevation, the encumbering snows, and steep declivities; while it is also difficult for the stranger to reach, owing to the rarefaction of the atmosphere. Still it is occupied by various forms of animal and vegetable life, and is annually for a time the residence of a native wandering people. The snow lies deep upon the "Roof" through the greater part of the year, but disappears in summer, though masses remain unmelted in hollows and shaded places. During this season, the spot is a favourite resort of the wandering Kirghis, for the pasturing of their cattle. The short grass which then clothes the surface is so rich that their horses are quickly brought into good condition; and its nourishing qualities are evidenced in the productiveness of their ewes, which almost invariably bring forth two lambs at a birth. In the depth of winter they retire into the sheltered valleys at lower levels. A fine sheet of water also lies on the table-land. This is the Sir-i-Kol, the loftiest lake on the surface of the globe. Marco Polo, the Venetian traveller, in the last half of the thirteenth century, traversed the region on his remarkable oriental tour, and has left accurate notices of it in the account of his journey. He particularly observed, without understanding the cause, that fire did not burn with the same vivacity and strength as in other places, neither did it cook victuals so well. He was the first to point out this circumstance, which has been verified by others at high elevations, and is doubtless the effect of the rarefaction of the air. He also mentions a species of sheep, the enormous horns of which the natives applied to various purposes, especially to piling them up in large quantities along the road, for the guidance of travellers in winter, when it is covered with snow. The astonishing size of the horns, and the practice of converting them into guide-posts, have been noticed by a very recent visitor. They appear to belong to an animal between the goat and the sheep. For five centuries and a half from the date of the Venetian's visit, we have no record of any European reaching the spot, till lieutenant John Wood, after surmounting innumerable difficulties and dangers, stood, to use the native expression, on the "Roof of the World," and beheld the expanse of the lake Sir-i-Kol stretched out before him, covered with thick ice, the infant and classical river Oxus issuing from it. This was on the 19th of February, 1838, at five o'clock in the afternoon. He ascended by the valley of the river from Bokhara, accompanied by a party of natives. On approaching its source, the snow lay deeper and deeper every step in advance, for the winter season added immensely to the difficulty of the undertaking. Two hours were occupied in forcing a passage over a field of snow not five hundred yards in extent. Each horse of the party took the lead by turns, and struggled onwards till exhaustion brought it down, when it was allowed to rest, while another took its place. On Mr. Wood attempting to proceed more rapidly over a favourable site, a guide seized the bridle of his horse, and cautioned him against the "wind of the mountain," | and Mohammedans, who conduct their own governalluding to the highly rarefied air, which speedily arrests exertion. Wishing to ascertain the depth of the Sir-i-Kol, he tried to make an opening in the ice, but found the slightest muscular effort too exhausting to proceed. Half a dozen strokes of the axe prostrated the workman; and though a few minutes' respite sufficed to restore the breath, anything like continued labour was impossible. A short run made the runner gasp; the pulse throbbed at a fearful rate; the voice was sensibly affect ed; and conversation in a loud tone was too painful to be maintained. The yak or kúh-gáú (mountain cow) delights in this high region, thrives in the cold, and finds the climate most congenial to its constitution, on the very border of the perpetual snow-line. This interesting and little-known animal belongs to the ox species. It stands about three feet and a half high, and sweeps the ground with a bushy tail. Long hair streams down its dew-lap and fore-legs, giving it, but for its horns, the appearance of a huge Newfoundland dog. It occurs both wild and domesticated, and is as valuable to the Kirghis as the reindeer to the Laplander. The milk is richer than that of the common cow, though the yield is less; the flesh supplies food; the strong pliant hair is made into ropes, woven into mats, and with the hide is used for articles of dress; the horns serve for drinking-vessels; and the long bushy tail is the chowry of India, the fan of the grandees. In addition to these uses, the yak is a beast of burden, and is preferred to the horse for riding on the difficult highlands, as more sure-footed and sagacious. Mr. Wood first saw the animal on his way up the valley of the Oxus. It was standing before a door, with its bridle in the hand of a Kirghis boy. "There was something," he observes, "so novel in the sight that I could not resist the impulse of mounting so strange a steed, but in doing so met with a stout resistance from the little fellow who had it in charge. In the middle of our dispute the boy's mother made her appearance, and very kindly permitted me to try the animal's paces. It bore a light saddle, with horn stirrups; a cord let through the cartilage of the nose served for a bridle." Where a man must step cautiously and slowly, the yak will go safely at full gallop, avoiding hidden chasms with admirable sagacity, or dexterously overleaping them. When pursuing an untried path, one of these animals is driven in advance as a pioneer, to ascertain the dangers and practicability of the road. Should a sudden fall of snow choke up passages in the highlands, a herd sent a-head will soon clear the way by treading down the snow. When it lies deep upon the herbage, the yak pushes it off, by rolling himself down the slopes. He will then eat his way up again, and in the same manner make another groove in the snow, to repeat the browse. As the nearest line of communication between great districts of Central Asia, the western part of the Chinese empire, and Turkestan, the table-land of Pamir is a commercial route, annually traversed, notwithstanding its difficulties. Having gained its high level from the west, or from Bokhara, the Chinese territory is entered, and a few days' journey brings the merchant to Varkand, a frontier position of the empire. The inhabitants are Turkomans ment, while Chinese officers collect the revenues and guard the country from foreign intrusion. The usual journey by caravan to Pekin occupies a period of five months; but in great emergencies expresses are sent in little more than one month, by relays of horses; and intelligence has been transmitted to the seat of government in six days, by means of piles of wood, placed at certain stages, which are directed to be set on fire, on any insurrectionary movement breaking out. Tea, and other productions of China, are forwarded to Yarkand, and disposed of to the natives of Bokhara, who are per mitted to come thither for the purpose. But they are rigorously restricted in their movements, and placed under strict surveillance. Sir A. Burnes mentions the instance of one of his own servants, who had formerly crossed this part of the frontier, and exposed himself to the suspicion of the authorities. After a confinement of some months, he was dismissed by the route he had come, but not till his likeness had been taken. Several copies of this picture were despatched to the frontier towns, with the following laconic instructions:-" If this man enters the country, his head is the emperor's, his property is yours.' "I need not add," says Burnes, "that he has never since sought to extend his acquaintance in the Chinese province of Yarkand." But here, as at other points, the exclusive empire will be compelled to loosen the rein, and submit to freer intercourse with the outlying nations, should it escape the complete disruption which at present threatens it from its own subjects. Besides its snow and ice, travelling merchants, nomadic hordes, and agile yaks, the Roof of the World has its cemetery, illustrative of the common lot of man, whether a mountain or a lowland dweller. A rough-looking building decked out with horns of the wild sheep, and all but hidden in the snow, arrested the attention of lieutenant Wood. It was the last home of many a wandering Kirghis, and lay a little out of the line of road pursued by the traveller. On coming abreast of it, the leading horseman of the party, who chanced to be of the same tribe, pulled up and dismounted. His companions followed him, and, wading through the deep drift, reached a tombstone, the top of which was uncovered. Before this they knelt, all encumbered as they were with their huge forked matchlocks strapped to their backs, and offered up prayers to the Almighty. The whole of the company involuntarily stopped till they had finished. The stillness of the scene, the solitariness and wintry aspect of the waste, with the almost entire absence of all animated nature, rendered the spectacle highly impressive and suggestive of salutary thoughts to the reflecting mind. LOOK OUT! THE importance of a phrase or a sentence is not always to be measured by its length. There are some sentences very lengthy and pretentious, that convey after all but a very homeopathic idea. Other sentences are characterised by force and brevity rather than elegance; they are short, sharp, and bustling, and strike you by their pithy |