CALLED ASIDE. 
“I HAVE SOMEWHAT TO SAY UNTO THEE.” 
Called aside— 
From the triad working of thy busy life, 
From the world's ceaseless stir of care and strife, 
Into the shade and stillness by thy heavenly Guide, 
For a brief space tkon hast been called aside. 
Lonely hours 
Thou hast spout, weary on a couch of pain. 
Watching the golden sunshine and the falling rain: 
Hours whose rad length only to Him was known, 
Who trod a sadder pathway, dark and lone. 
Laid aside— 
Way not the little cup of Buffering be 
A loving one of blessing given to thee ? 
The cross of chastening sent thee from above 
By Him who boro the cross, whose name is Love. 
Called aside— 
Hast thou no memories of that “ little while f ” 
No sweet remembrance of thy Father’s smile ? 
No hidden thoughts that wrap thee in their hold, 
Of Him who did such light and grace tmfold ? 
Called aside— 
Perhaps into the desert garden dim, 
And yet not alone, when thou hast been with Him, 
And heard his voice in sweetest accents say, 
“ Child, wilt thou not with trio this still hour stay ?" 
Called aside— 
In hidden paths with Christ thy Lord to tread, 
Deeper to drink at the sweet Fountain-Head; 
Closer in fellowship with Him to roam, 
Nearer, perchance, to feel thy heavenly home. 
Called aside— 
O, knowledge deeper grows with him alone, 
In secret if Ilis deeper love is ehuwu. 
And learn in many an hour of dark distress 
Some rare, sweet lesson of His tenderness. 
Called aside— 
Wo thank Thee for the stillness and the shade; 
Wc thank Thee for the hidden paths Thy love hath 
made, 
And, so that we have wept and watched with Thee, 
We thank Thee for our dark Gethsemane. 
Called aside.— 
O, restful thought—He doeth all things woll— 
O, blessed sense, with Christ alone to dwell: 
So, in the shadow of Thy cross to bide, 
We thank Thee, Lord, to have been called asido. 
Stov!)-®fllci\ 
AN AUNT BY MARRIAGE. 
BY JAMES l'AYN. 
I suppose t here are more people who go abroad 
for pleasure, and detest it, than who affect to ad¬ 
mire “ Paradise Lost,” When one considers the 
packing and the crossing the Channel, and the 
jabber on the other side of it, which not. one In 
ten of us understands, and the tenth only Imper¬ 
fectly; tho discomforts ami delays or travel, the 
Impertinence of tho officials, the expense and, 
above all, the growing sense of exile—for many 
men drag a lengthening chain behind them with 
evoryinehof distance they can place between 
themselves and home-I say, putting all thus*' 
things together, the Continent Is purgatory, or 
worse, to hundreds or good people who pretend 
that they find It heaven. 
This is especially the case with men of mature 
years, who have not been used to foreign travel, 
but take It up because their hardly - acquired 
wealth has given them a position which seems to 
demand It, Their wives and daughters compel 
them to go over to Boulogne, or to seo Paris, or to 
tour in Switzerland, or to visit Italy—according 
as their means enable them to be miserable on 
an Increasing scale, I have met honest British 
citizens wandering about the home or the Caesars, 
who have confessed to me with tears In their eyes 
that the Colosseum in the Regents 1’ark was 
quite lonely, dreary, and ruinous enough for their 
taste, without their being dragged over mountain 
passes to behold by moonlight its ltoman rival. 
They have told me in momenta ot conlidence how 
they have been flea-bitten, and bug-bitten, and 
mosquito-bitten; how their long hours of weary 
travel by day have been followed by wearier 
nights; how they have sweltered 111 the “sunny 
South,” without a draught or their favorite liquor 
to cool their tongues, though they have offered 
ten tiroes Its proper price for It; how they have 
been robbed right and left, and insulted every¬ 
where, and how ever In their jaded cars there 
whispers a monotonous voice, saying, “ What an 
enormous fool I am!” 
I know one good soul—“a bulwark of his native 
city”—who has visited “ the Engadtne” and “ the 
Dolomites" without being aware of It. Ills wife 
took ldm tblther, assuring him in each case it 
was the correct tour to take; but when lie reached 
them, or when he left them, or what they were, 
he could not tell you to save his life. What he 
knows, and for whfcli he thanks heaven every 
night he lays his head upon his pillow is, that he 
has somehow got home again, and that his holi¬ 
day time Is over lor the next nine months. 
Of all the honest souls that ever crossed “ the 
silver streak,” and heard (without catching) the 
accents of “ the parlcz-vou-x”, (as lie always called 
the French folks,) my Uncle Nokes was the most 
thoroughly British. 
“I OttCC took French leave at BChool, sir, (and 
was flogged for It,) and that,” he was wont to say, 
“ was tho only association I ever had with any¬ 
thing French, or over mean to have.” Butman 
proposes—and It so happened, thanks to the irony 
of fate, that my uncle proposed lo a French¬ 
woman. 
The circumstances wore very curious and, I 
think, Interesting; at all events, they Interested 
me when they took place, exceedingly; for I, Ills 
nephew, liad up to that time been his heir, and 
his marriage disinherited me; though ho always 
said that It was my marriage and not ids, that 
did the mischief. The fact is, I chose my wife 
myself, Instead of submitting to Uncle Nathan¬ 
iel's views on the matter, and he never forgave it. 
“ it you marry Clara,” said he, “as sure as your 
name is Charles, I’ll marry, myself, before the 
year Is out.” 
Now, whenever ft was possible, l knew Uncle 
Nathaniel always kept his word; but yet I did 
not believe that, at the age or sixty, ami having 
been a continued bachelor all hla life, he could, 
just to spite me, commit such an act of folly. I 
had also a fond and foolish hope that nobody 
would liavo him. 
So Clam and t married. 
We wroto my uncle a Joint letter, which I 
should have thought would have touched any 
heart—and l am bound to say his was a very ten¬ 
der one ; but he sent It back to us, with the date 
—it was the lirst of May—underlined, and a foot¬ 
note In lilsown handwriting;—'* When this comes 
round again, you will have an aunt-lti-law.’’ 
We had been such fast friends, my uncle and I, 
that l could not believe but that ho would forgive 
mo; and my Clara was such a sweet angel, that 
ir be would but give her the Opportunity, l felt 
she must win Him over. But he would never so 
much as see her. It was always Ids fixed Idea 
that I was to “marry money," and bring It Into 
the wine trade In which we wore both engaged; 
and she was tho orphan daughter of a country 
clergyman without a shining. 
In vain 1 told him shy was the dearest girl In 
the world; he replied that 1 should doubtless tlnd 
her so, since she would cost mo all his fortune, 
which would otherwise have one day boon mine, 
l was to have been his partner; but since I ohose 
to attach myself to another firm, I must take tho 
consequences (however many there might be oi 
them) on my own shoulders. He was jocose In 
his manner—-it was natural to him to bo so—but 
lie was none the less deter idined. Determination 
was also my forte -It. was hereditary In llio Nokes 
family, which unfortunately the money wasn’t; 
but in my case ho call d It by another word—In¬ 
fernal obstinacy. My unloa with Clara quite sep¬ 
arated us from ldm. I saw nothing of him, and 
heard nothing until long afterward, when tho cir¬ 
cumstances came to my knowledge which Iain 
About to relate. In the meantime, Clara and 1 
were living on our means—namely, on the simple 
thousand pounds of which I was possessed. 
1 have said tluclo Nathaniel was soft-hoarted 
except where Ids prejudices and self-will were 
concerned, I may go a step further, and say ho 
was as tender as a spring kitcuon—or a green 
goose; and ho made more bad debts than any 
other man In tho wine trade In consequence. He 
had, also, rather a slavish admiration for people 
of quality which, I need not say, caused him to 
be swindled worse than the other falling, 
A new customer had recently been added to his 
list, when our disagreement look place, In tho 
person of Count Albert do Montmorencl. If this 
young gentleman was not a good Judge Of wine, 
It was not, because he had not the opportunity Of 
tasting the best—and a good ileal Of It. lie drank 
like a gold-fish, but, Nokes Co. novor saw tho 
color of his gold. lie lived with his sister in fash¬ 
ionable lodgings In Pall Mall, and had been Intro¬ 
duced to us by the secretary of the French Em¬ 
bassy (“ under La Hose," as my uncle used to say,) 
so Hut the connection promised well enough ; ln- 
doed, tho Count continued to promise, but my 
uncle could never get his money. 
At last, weary of importuning hi3 debtor by such 
delicate reminders as “ It has doubtless escaped 
your lordship’s recollection that In April last we 
had the honor to forward to you for the third time 
our little account." my uncle called In person In 
Pall Mall, lie was rather fond or having lo take 
this course with eminent personages, since he 
flattered himself ho made an impression. They 
did not expect to find la their wine-merchant a 
gentleman attired In a blue coat and white waist¬ 
coat, with a hot-house (lower In his button-hole, 
and possessed of such natural manners, lie was 
a sort of man to tell you all his family history and 
how much money he had In the funds, within live 
minutes of your acquaintance with him. I dare 
say he told the Count about myself and dear Clara, 
and I am quite certain lie told him about the 
money In the funds, from what subsequently took 
place. 
Instead of paying Undo Nathaniel, the Count 
Introduced ldm to his sister, Mademoiselle Bella 
de Montmorencl, whom wo afterward used to call 
Bella-donna, because her name was poison to us. 
She was twenty-four and a beauty, though not 
perhaps altogether “ without paint.” 1 don’t know 
whether It was on that first occasion or on the 
second visit that my uncle informed her that he 
was under a Boloinu vow to marry within the 
year; but she was very soon possessed of the fact, 
and in the end she consented to be the victim. No 
doubt she got her Quirt urn quo / but 1 am bound 
to say that she did not snap at him like a pike; 
on the contrary, she temporized like a trimmer, 
it was only through her brother's persuasion, to 
whom she was devoted—and who wanted money, 
no matter how It came—that she promised to be¬ 
come Mrs. Nokes; and tills did not take place till 
Clara and I had been married eleven months and 
had been blessed, for ono of them, with Chicka¬ 
biddy, The arrival of that admirable infant was 
duly notified to my uncle, but received from him 
very little attention; Indeed, he sent back my 
note, with the letters N. A. neatly written upon 
the envelope, which.was his business custom with 
communications that were not considered worth 
a reply. It was the only specimen of his hand¬ 
writing with which l had been favored—with one 
exception already mentioned—since our disagree¬ 
ment, and I relt, too surely that It would he tho 
last. 
It was late In April that the Infatuated old gen¬ 
tleman departed ror Parte, and Installed himself 
quite alone In the Hotel ot the Four Seasons fur a 
few days previous to his nuptials, lie deserved 
to suffer, of course, but his tribulations during 
that period were very severe. If tho gay young 
Count Albert.de Montmorencl—whose experiences 
of life had been mainly con lined, I believe, to gam¬ 
bling rooms and casinos—lmd been shipwrecked 
In his evening clothes upon a desolate island, he 
could not have been more thoroughly out of his 
element than was Mr. Nathuiff I Nokes at, Ills 
Paris hotel, ills only friend, the ■ -I'.r person who 
(very literally) understood him, v s Susan, the 
English chambermaid, without whom he would 
perhaps have perished of inanition, lor the house 
was not at all anglicized save by her presence, but 
was an old-fashioned thoroughly French Inn, pat¬ 
ronized by the irlends or the old legitimate nobil¬ 
ity, and recommended by the Count himself as 
being quiet, and exclusive, lie was doubtless 
anxious to keep his new brother-in-law “dark" 
as long as it. was possible. 
To ,Susan my poor uncle had been as frank as to 
the rest of the world: she knew all about Ills past 
—including his quarrel with myself and Clara — 
within the lirst twenty-tonishours; and as much 
about Ills future as lie did himself; which, Indeed, 
was solely this, that he was going to marry Made¬ 
moiselle de Montmorencl on the ensuing Friday, 
lb; had been introduced to none or her relations 
(nor even knew If she had any) except, her brother; 
and had not. exchanged half a dozen words with 
her In any known language. Ills French was so 
very English, and her English so very French, 
that they had the greatest dillleiilty In making 
themselves Intelligible to one another. The main 
point, however, so far as the Count wits concerned 
(namely, my uncle's fortune), was quite settled, 
and settled on bis sister; while on tho Other hand 
the ancient, lineage of the Montmorencls was un¬ 
questionable. it pleased my poor uncle lo hear 
that seme live hundred years ago there had been 
a Constable In the family; It sounded something 
like English, and was so far preferable to yen- 
d'artun, ll Is Bella and he, as ho confessed to lilm- 
seir (and Susan), would probably have nothing In 
common for some time to Come—except hla prop¬ 
erty; but, though ho had great misgivings about 
everything, lie was resolved to keep ids word, not 
so much to " the Montmorenel,” (as he called her,) 
but to himself and indirectly to me and Clara, 
though we would have very gladly excused him. 
Susan, with well-meaning IT somewhat, familiar 
frankness, Used to venture to hint that In; might 
be too much in a hurry about the matter, and 
even altogether making a mistake. 
“ You are so fond ot old England, sir, t hat 1 
doubt, whether you ought not to have chosen your 
wife from your native land, it seems so strange 
lo come to Paris, of all places, to choose one!” 
Then ho would sharply ask her what she meant 
by that, and whnl she could possibly know about, 
It; to which she would quietly reply that she had 
lived In Palis ror some years. Then again, from 
Sheer good-nature, rather than rrorn want of tact, 
or which indeed the girl had plnnty, she would be 
always putting In a word la favor of pour disin¬ 
herited me, which, coupled with his own private 
remorse upon my account, almost drove him dis¬ 
tracted ; but, he could not afford to quarrel with 
Busan, for, as 1 have said, In the Hotel of the Four 
Seasons there was no English spoken, and he 
could hardly have lived without her. 
On his wedding morning lie gave her a ten- 
pound note, and parted from her to go to tho Em¬ 
bassy (where he was to be married) as from the 
only friend he had In Franco. 
I n less than an hour he was back again at, the 
hotel, ringing his silting- room bell like a mad¬ 
man, and demanding Susan, who was, as usual at 
that hour, sweeping the corridor. 
“ Woll, sir,” said she, presenting hersolf, broom 
lu hand, " what has happened?” 
“ Everything—that fs, nothing. Tho Jade has 
jilted me, and 1 am not to be married to her after 
all," w.is the unexpected reply. Susan had the 
good sense not to congratulate him, but let him 
proceed to state his grievance. It seemed that at 
Lbe last moment the Montmorencl had found her¬ 
self unable to become Mrs. Nokes, and. In fact, 
had eloped with some gentleman more to her 
taste, though, perhaps, less to her advantage. 
My uncle had found the Count waiting at the 
Embassy, full ot apologies and “desolation,” and 
offering in the handsomest way to give him satis¬ 
faction with what ho called “the national weapon 
of his country,” the pistol, though tho small sword 
had been hitherto his (the Count’s)*ouly wear. 
Even this would not have given toy uncle much 
superiority in the field, as lie had never had a 
pistol In his hand—except a pocket pistol; and as 
for the “ national weapon," as be afterward con¬ 
fessed, he thought for bis part that It had been 
tho umbrella. Of course be had declined to light 
the man, but if there was Justice lu heaven—or at 
least in Parts, lie was resolved to get what, he 
called his rights: compensation to ills blighted 
hopes, damages. It was not on this point, how¬ 
ever, that tie wanted Susan’s advice. Uo felt that 
even she could not be of much service to him In 
prosecuting Ills claims in a court of Justice; but 
as his only guide, philosopher, mend and Inter¬ 
preter In a foreign land, he wanted her assistance 
for something else—nobody will believe it, who 
did not know my uncle—to get him a wile in lieu 
of the Mnntmoronel. There were only six days 
for him to do It In; only six days before the 
twelve months were gone In which be had sworn 
to become a Benedict; and ho was as much re¬ 
solved to keep Ills word as ever. “ How, Susan, 
how,"cried he, “am I to find a respectable young 
w oman to marry mo On so short a notice 
It was a question most absn rd aud unreasonable, 
of course, but then ray uncle’s position was absurd 
and certainly without, reason—or at all events good 
reason. He had no reason* to want to be married 
at all. 
Susan took tbe bull by the horns (If I was not 
his nephew and bound to reverence, 1 might have 
said the donkey by Ids cars) at once. “ Sir,” said 
she, “ have you got an almanac?” 
As a businessman lie kept one Jn ills breast¬ 
pocket, and at unco produced It: he could not 
guess what she wanted, but, through having been 
so dependent on lier, lie felt a blind conlidence In 
everything that she suggested, she took it and 
looked at the month of February, and returned It 
with a shake of her bead. 
“ No, sir; It won't do." 
“What won't do? what did you expect would 
do lu a crisis like this?” ho Inquired. 
“ Well, sir,” said she demurely, “ 1 had thought 
it, might be leap-year, but it. isn't.” 
“What? you Impudent hussy! Do you mean 
to say th.it you dreamed of proposing yourself lu 
tho place of the Montmorencl!” 
It was plain enough that she did; and Susan 
was very far from plain. He bad noticed that be¬ 
fore, but had hitherto refrained from dwelling 
upon the Idea, out of regard for tho (supposed) 
feelings of the Montmorencl; It had struck him 
that very morning when she was sewing on a 
shJrt-button for him as he was starting for t he 
Embassy. 
'• 1 beg your pardon, sir,” she said humbly. “ I 
am afraid I have boon taking a liberty.” 
"Yes," said lie, chucking her thoughtfully under 
tbe chin; " you should never take liberties. Drop 
that duster from your eyes, Susan; don’t cry, lor 
It makes them red, and I rather like your eyes.” 
He had not, dwelt upon that Idea before, for the 
reason already stated, but ho hud ulwuys rather 
liked her eyes; anil the reason for not liking them 
no longer existed. It would be a dreadful come¬ 
down from the Montmorencl; but then he must 
marry xouietiniVj within six days; and the social 
difference between hliu aud Susan would scarcely 
be greater than In I he former ease— though It was 
true that It would bn all the other way. Shi; had 
a thoroughly honest English face, and bad boon 
very kind to him. On the other hand, be had 
written to bis city friends in raptures about tho 
Montmoremi’s accomplishments. They had ex¬ 
pressed their eagerness to hear her slug and play, 
and to see her exquisite sketches In oil. Then 
again there were her hands. The Montmorencls 
were famous for tbe whiteness of their hands, It 
seems, and Mademoiselle Bella's be had deserihed 
as like the driven snow; whereas .Susan’s were 
like tho snow that has been driven over tor u. lew 
days in London. To b« sure, as Mrs. Nokes she 
would have nothing lo do but to wash them; and 
fortunately she could speak French like a native, 
or what would seem to his city friends, If not to 
his country neighbors (he had a villa near Eglmm 
called the Tamarisks) like a native. Ue eertulnty 
might do worse than marry Susan, and there 
seemed to bo no opportunity for him. If he kept 
his word, of doing better. Then again, though he 
bad conlidence lu her antecedents (so far as she 
was personally concerned), she would bn curtain 
to have dreadful relatives, lie approached this 
subject with caution. 
“Susan dear”—he thought he might commit 
hi ms elf so far, and It sounded pleasant—“ Susan, 
deaif, what is your name?" 
“Montorn, sir; Susan Montom,” 
Ue thought the name not so bad; It was half 
way to Montmorencl, though that did not- much 
signify, If It was to become Nokes. 
“ is your father alive ?” 
“No,air.” Here the poor thing sighed. “lie Is 
dead, sir." 
“That’s bad,” said ray uncle, meaning Just tho 
contrary, “ And your dear mother; she Is alive, 
I suppose?" 
“ No, sir." Hero she used the duster rreely. “ I 
am an orphan.” 
“That’s excellent,” thought my uncle; but what 
ho said was, “Boor dear! so am I.” All was woll 
so far; but It was almost certain that she would 
have brothers— probably glu-drlrikers, certainly 
plpe-smokera—whom lie would have to buy up, or 
who might even reiusc to be bought up, and sis¬ 
ters who bad married Idle mechanics who had 
executions m their houses every quarter-day. 
“Susan, how many brothers and sisters havo 
you?” inquired lie, with desperation. 
•* I have none, sir.” 
Ho was so delighted that ho was almost tempt¬ 
ed—Indeed, lie did It—be kissed her. After that 
he fell that he had passed the Hubicon and burn¬ 
ed Ids boats after him. “ Now, Susan, I cap bear 
to hear all about you." 
She had not much to toll. Mlie had been left a 
foundling at SalthlU Work-house, near Eton, 
upon Montem Day, and had consequently boon 
summed Montem by the Guardians. The curate 
of tho place bad been very kind to her, and when 
she grow up had recommended her as a servant 
to a lady mend of his; this lady had taken a 
fancy to her and, discovering her abilities aud 
high character, had made her her own maid and 
token her on a trip to Paris. She had put up at 
that very hotel and unhappily died there. 
“I don’t wonder at that l" Interpolated my 
uncle. 
Being thus rendered friendless—tor her bene¬ 
factor the curate wus dead -and tho people of tho 
Inn wanting a chambermaid, Susan had volun¬ 
teered for the place, and had tilled It. ever since. 
It was a very simple story. 
“All that you have sahl Is to your credit, Su¬ 
san,” said my uncle, gravely. “ That curate must 
