change of dynasty by violence occasioned confusion and trouble, and they remained, until presented to the Philadelphia Library, in the custody of his family, who did not consider that the succeeding government had any legal title to them. They continued to be kept in the library in the original box in which they had been sent; and were entirely unappreciated, and in fact nearly forgotten, when the librarianship of the joint collection fell to the Logan heir, John Jay Smith, Esq., father of the present incumbent. Mr. Smith immediately had the valuable documents properly arranged, bound, and catalogued.

One of the pages had contained the autograph of Queen Elizabeth, but it was filched by some vandal collector, with no more veneration in his composition than the rogue who stole Byron's note from the urn in Sir Walter Scott's drawing-room. Several other royal signatures met the same fate, and figured but lately, it is said, in a sale of autographs in New York.

The thoughtful care of Mr. Smith, in having the manuscripts properly preserved in volumes, effectually protected them from further depredations.

During the recent visit of Mr. Hep worth Dixon to this country his attention was called to these five volumes of manuscripts by the present librarian, vir. Lloyd P. Smith. An examination made it evident that they were a part of the national archives of Great Britain. They consisted of four volumes of official correspondence relating to Ireland, bearing the royal sign manual of James I. and the signatures of the Lords of his Privy Council, addressed to the Lord Deputy of Ireland. The fifth volume contained the original manuscript of the Marquis of Clanricarde's Memoirs from October 23, 1641, to August 30, 1643. It was further ascertained through Mr. Dixon, who was familiar with the state papers in the Rolls House in London, that the series of letters of which these

volumes were a part is preserved in London in the custody of the Master of the Rolls. As the minutes clearly showed that the manuscripts were given to the Library Company without any reservation or trust, there seemed to be a manifest propriety in restoring them to the British government as a portion of their public archives. The' directors, therefore, through the librarian, made a formal offer to that effect to Lord Romilly, the Master of the Rolls. The offer was immediately transmitted to the Lords of the Treasury, and was by them gratefully accepted.

In the course of his reply to Mr. Smith, Lord Romilly says: "I cannot conclude without expressing to yourself personally, or without begging also through you to express to the Library Company of Philadelphia, my deep sense of the obligation conferred by them on the British nation, and my conviction that this, and acts of a similar character, will rivet more closely the ties of friendship and respect which already bind our countries together."

Thus the courtesy of the English officers in 1777 was returned with interest to their whole nation in 1867.

The manuscripts were transmitted in safety to London through the late lamented Sir Frederick Bruce, who deemed them of sufficient value to induce him to forward them to his government by a special messenger. In his letter to the Company Sir Frederick remarked: “The Lord Commissioners request the acceptance by the directors, for deposit in the Philadelphia Library, of a complete set of the Chronicles and Memorials of Great Britain and Ireland during the Middle Ages, and of the Calendars of State Papers, as well as of the several facsimiles made by the process of photozincography, and published by their authority under the direction of the Master of the Rolls."

This munificent gift, consisting of one hundred and fifty-six volumes, all handsomely bound in levant morocco, was received on the 6th of May last;

and it will continue to be henceforth an object of the highest interest to the jurist and the historical scholar.

An unintentional error concerning the Company's gift to the British Government crept into Lord Romilly's letter of the 30th April last, addressed to the editor of the "London Times." In the course of that communication the Master of the Rolls said: "A case has been received by me containing the four volumes in question, and also the original manuscript of the Marquis of Clanricarde's Memoirs, from October 23, 1641, to August 30, 1643, mentioned in Mr. Hardy's valuable Report on the Carte and Carew Papers, and which has long been supposed to be lost. This work was actually presented to Mr. Dixon for himself, who as soon as he discovered its contents, and that it belonged to the same set of state papers, thought proper to restore it to the series from which he considered it unfit that it should be separated. I need scarcely say that it is of great value."

This statement is calculated to create an erroneous impression, owing doubtless to a misapprehension on the part of Mr. Dixon, who in fact asked for the manuscript; the directors, however, declined to give it, except to the British authorities; and instructed the librarian to embody their views in a letter, which was forwarded to Mr. Dixon on the 14th of December, 1866. The following paragraph from that epistle clearly defines their position: "The Diary of Clanricarde be

ing a gift, they [the directors] did not feel authorized to part with it to any private person, but, as it appears to be also official in its character, and a part of the Irish state papers, I am directed to add it to the manuscript letters, and return the whole to the Master of the Rolls, in whose office you will be able to consult it."

Within a few weeks the following memorials have also been presented to the library: An excellent oil painting of Stenton, "Logan's Country Seat," by Edmund Lewis; a characteristic portrait of Dr. Franklin; and an admirable likeness of the Duke of Brunswick, who first sold soldiers to George III. Underneath the latter, in very appropriate propinquity, lies a thirteeninch mortar shell, which was fired from the right batteries of General Washington's second parallel, during the siege of Yorktown, in October, 1781. It was exhumed three years since, under the direction of the gallant BrigadierGeneral Isaac J. Wistar.

So much matter has crowded upon my attention in the review of the history of the Library Company of Philadelphia, that this sketch has outrun my intention. If, however, I have really succeeded in awakening an interest in this venerable institution, the following words of one whose accurate learning is proverbial will be readily appreciated: "No library I have ever seen, not even the Bodleian, has left such traces on my imagination as the Old Philadelphia, which I want to see again."

I

FOLDED up the sheet, and laid it on the Doctor's little table.

It had grown late while I read and thought and remembered; and the sound of a church-clock striking eleven came swelling and sinking on the wind. It was enough like a knell to make me shudder. And I began to think of the same sound with the foam rushing over the Inch Cape Rock, and all the time the ghastly procession of the prison-bell marshalled itself before my eyes. One or two growls of distant thunder betokened the clearing-up shower. In all the tumultuousness of the earth and heaven resounded still the great monotone of the surf. I went to the window and looked out, for a nightstorm always makes me as restless as it does a cat; and I can quote the witty Adolphe d'Houdetot with feeling when, in remembering that the deluge took place in order to punish men for their iniquities, he asks himself if we have always been wise enough not to experience a secret apprehension while it rains. The only light to be seen was that of a distant corner-lamp flickering and flaring windily over the blackness of its desolate region; everything in the house was still, even to the mouse of the wainscot; the rain ran in rivulets down the cold pane against which my forehead was pressed. I wondered if Lucian Jouvency heard it beat against his prison-window, or if little Joey Hazard looked out, as I did, at the night, and shivered at the wild, sad cry of the wind. All the pressure of others' troubles lowered my moral temperature till I seemed to feel the habit of misfortune upon me, till I grew nervous, and foreboded a hundred ills to befall the Doctor. When I turned, I found the fire had fallen, and the room was cold; to give the grate again its cheerful blaze required me to bestir myself, and the movement quickly swept all the cobwebs out of my

sky. Then, as the most trivial things will swarm into the mind after any long or serious strain, I fell to considering whether or not the rain had hurt my ivy, not yet brought within doors; if it would be followed by a black frost; if the pears I had wrapped in paper and laid in a drawer were mellowed yet. I wished the Isabellas had been gathered before the weather changed; I brought out the great globe of a decanter for the firelight to set a flame in, and piled the basket with the little red-jewelled clusters of the new vines, shedding their sweet-spiced savor as soon as they felt the fire. So much for beauty. And then I considered that a gallop through the storm would give a man keen relish for more substantial things than dainties; and as Elizabeth had long been in bed and the fire in ashes, I laid a little gridiron on the parlor coals, and proceeded to toast the side of a chicken with the best art I had.

While I still bent over the fire, toasting my own face as well, there came the clatter of wheels up the street; I did not think it could be the Doctor, for he had gone on horseback; but, while I was telling myself so, the door was thrown open, there were voices in the entry, I ran forward, toasting-fork in hand, in time to see the Doctor and some one else assisting a third person up stairs, by the light of the hanging lamp, and into my best bedroom. While I looked after them, and stupidly congratulated myself that the place had been freshly set to rights that morning, the Doctor called to me to mull some wine; one of the strangers - it was the man that had called the Doctor — came down with the lantern, by whose help they had steered through the outer darkness, put Chestnut up for the night, he having been led home by the bridle, - got into his

give you just fifteen minutes," and he

was gone.

At that, my spirit being up, although I love to take my leisure, I determined to be beforehand with him. We put old Chestnut to his mettle, and I was on the steps ready to welcome the Doctor when the coach drove up. I stood there, proud and smiling, looking up street and down, but no coach came; I heard the first bell ring, and the second, and the snorting of the impatient engine, still no coach; then the third bell began to toll, and with its sound the inquiring head of the Doctor peered round the corner. "Where did you come from?" exclaimed I. "I have been waiting here all of the fifteen minutes."

"I dare say," answered he with surly triumph. "I came from the cars. You have twice as many seconds to reach them in," and he seized my arm. "What is in that?" looking at my innocent leather bag.

"My night toilet.”

"And that box?" with a terrible eye. "Why, I can't travel in my silk, you know, and these are my muslins, and your dress-coat and —”

The Doctor tossed it into the chaise for Martin to take home again, and swept me away to the cars, settled me with a book, and betook himself to the other car, in whose private apartment he had made his patient comfortable. However, I found somebody to talk to; and in good season we reached our destination. Then the Doctor unceremoniously hustled me into one coach and his charge into another, gave the coachman his directions, he had on his business face, and I dared not ask a question, the door was slammed, and I was whirled away. On my feet once more, at list, and by the Doctor's side again, I called my good genius to aid me, I could but be killed, — and humbly demanded whither he was taking me.

Into court," answered he. "We are going to hear what they have to say in Lucian Jouvency's defence."

Then struggling through a throng,

before I knew it I was wedged into a seat, patted on the shoulder (a favorite emollient application of the Doctor's), and left to my own devices.

Little did I think last night that I should be here this morning! I conquered my giddiness, and surveyed my strange surroundings. They were just bringing in the prisoner. I should have known his stalwart and imposing aspect among a thousand, if there had been nothing else to mark him. That yellow woman not far away, working her hands and her face perpetually, must be Mrs. Hazard; she had not been in court before, probably Joey had insisted upon her hearing what plea there was to make for Lucian. Was that Joey Hazard by her side, who had just thrown back her thick veil in order to return Lucian's smile? It must be she, because there was the piquant little nose, the rippling, bright hair, the shy, bewitching air,—but the eyes full of light in the Doctor's story were to-day dull and heavy, not as if sodden with tears, but as if they had become blind to sunshine; and that being she, where was all the changing color gone? There were no roses now; it was winter there; and I even imagined that in the red gold of her hair one could see silver threads.

All had grown quiet in the court, preliminaries having been despatched while I looked at Joey and her two companions, and I was startled from my meditations by the voice of Lucian's counsel as he rose and stated that he was about to ask a favor of the court which he felt sure would be granted him; and that although he was aware it was entirely irregular to introduce testimony in that stage of the proceedings, yet he begged to do so, as the opportune arrival of a witness, since yesterday's adjournment, had put him in possession of facts that gave an entirely new aspect to the case, and which, while they did away with the necessity of his own plea, would prevent the court's wasting any further time upon the matter.

To this, of course, the prosecuting attorney, running his hand through his