never love again as she had loved. No, she would never marry; she would live with her parents, and when they were no more, would retire into some religious house.

“Well, my love,” said her father, “we will speak no more about it now. Take a month or two to think of it, and if in that time you are still of the same opinion, you shall not be importuned by Lamont's addresses, or any one's else."

"She'll come round in time," thought her father; "she likes Lamont, I know; and he is a worthy, good fellow, that he is."

The time passed rapidly away. One evening Monsieur Heppe, who had refrained from alluding to the subject any more, said to his daughter, as she bade him good night:

"To-morrow, my child, I shall ask you for your answer to the question I asked you two months ago. Good night, and whichever way you decide, be assured you will always be my own darling Annette." "Thanks, dear father," whispered Annette, as she left the room.

"What should she do?" she thought, when she was once more alone; but he is, I believe, a very amiable, kind man, and my father seems to wish it. Oh, what shall I do? Oh, Villiers, dear Villiers, tell me!" and the poor girl cried herself to sleep.

But next morning she awoke much refreshed, for she had had a pleasant dream that night. Villiers, she thought, had stood by her bedside, looking just the same as when she had seen him on that eventful day.

"Be true to me, dear Annette," he had said. "Some day I will come and

claim you."

So cheerful and so like herself did she appear at breakfast next morning, that her father imagined that she had at last got over her foolish scruples, and that

she had decided on no longer refusing an offer which in every way was so advantageous.

"At twelve, my love, I shall expect you in the drawing-room," said her father, affectionately kissing her on the forehead as he left the room.

But it is now time to return to our hero.

During all this time poor Beaufort had suffered severely. He could not ask for leave of absence, when he had only just entered on his duties. At length, when three months had elapsed, he ventured to apply for a few day's holiday, fully expecting a decided refusal. Contrary, however, to his expectations, and to his great joy, a letter couched in flattering terms, reached him from the Minister. Not only did he pass a high encomium on the manner in which he had discharged his arduous duties, but gave him permission to remain absent from his post a whole month.

That very day found Beaufort on his road to the metropolis, where he lost no time in finding out the General, to whom he now, for the first time, confided the events recorded above.

"Well, you are a pretty sort of a fellow," said the General, when his nephew had finished, "to go and frighten people in that way. You may depend upon it, Mademoiselle will not be over anxious to renew her acquaintance with a ghost."

"Oh, I don't think she believed it for a moment; it was really too absurd.”

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'Well, what do you want me to do, you dog? you always did come to your old uncle to get you out of your scrapes. But what sort of a young lady is Madamoiselle Annette? is she lady-like? is she-"

Hotel de Ville, to make inquiries where the coachman, who had driven him to Monsieur Heppe's house, now was.

To his great disappointment he found that the coachman had gone away from the hotel about a month since; and no one could tell him where he was likely to be found.

In vain did Beaufort visit all the cabriolet stands in Paris; but he met with no success. It was getting late now, and as he did not like to keep his uncle waiting for dinner, he set off to his hotel with a heavy heart.

But he had not gone many steps when he espied a bright yellow cabriolet. Ah! he remembered the one he had driven in was a bright yellow one; but then he had run after so many bright yellow ones that day, that he thought it was to no purpose to give chase to this one. However, on coming nearer, he at once recognized the coachman.

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My friend," he cried, running up to him and stopping the carriage, to the great disgust of an elderly gentleman inside, who had hired it, "do you remember driving me, about four months ago, to Monsieur Heppe's house?"

"No, monsieur; but to which Monsieur Heppe? there are so many of that

name."

"That is just what I want to know myself. But you drove me, I am certain. And don't you remember, I was there a long time; and when I came to find you, you had gone to sleep; and I gave you a present of five francs ?"

"Ah! monsieur, now I recollect it all," answered the coachman, on whose mind the five francs had left a lasting impression; "to be sure I do."

Beaufort could have hugged him with delight; but the old gentleman inside was beginning to get very cross, so he deemed it best not to be too demonstrative in the open street. "Here! here is another five-franc piece for you. Now come to-morrow to the Hotel at eleven, and drive me to Monsieur Heppe, and you shall have. another five-franc piece." And Beaufort hastened home to his uncle with a light

heart.

There was evidently something of importance going on at Monsieur Heppe's house next morning, for, by eleven

o'clock, Monsieur Lamont arrived, dressed out in the most approved style, while the old folks, too, had paid more than usual attention to their toilettes, and were awaiting the arrival of the above-named gentleman in the very room into which the supposed young Villiers had been ushered.

"I tell you, my dear, I am sure Annette has made up her mind to have him. Did you not see how cheerful she looked this morning?" said old Monsieur Heppe to his wife, as Lamont's carriage drove up to the door.

"I hope so; he will be an excellent match for her; but still I wish he had been real flesh and blood too," replied Madame, devoutly crossing herself, as she always did when the visit of the deceased Villiers was alluded to.

After the usual salutations had been exchanged, Madame Heppe left the room to find her daughter, and soon returned, leading her in. Annette had never looked so lovely as she did on this occasion, not even on that evening when Beauford was so deeply smitten with her.

"My love," presently commenced her father, "you know that you were this day to decide upon a most important matter. Monsieur Lamont has asked for and obtained my and your mother's consent to pay his address to you, and it is now only necessary that you should tell us whether you will—”

But before Monsieur Heppe could finish the sentence the door flew open, and in rushed the old servant as pale as a sheet, and trembling in every limb, as he cried out:

"Oh, my God! he's here again—he's here again!"

"Who? you stupid-who? are you gone mad?"

"The ghost, master, the ghost! and he's got another ghost with him. Let me hide myself somewhere ;" and the old man ran out of the room, and down into the cellar, whence he did not emerge till a late hour the same evening.

"I must ask pardon," said General de G--, in a courteous tone, "for intruding upon you unannounced, but your servant ran away, as if he had been possessed, directly he opened the door. Allow me to explain the object of my visit. My name is General de G

and my young friend here is my nephew, Monsieur Beaufort, Under-Prefect in the Department of"

Old Heppe opened his eyes at these words till he could open them no wider. "Why, it's-it's" he stammered. "Yes!" replied the General, smiling; "partly with, and partly against his will, my nephew entered your house under an assumed name, and was supposed by you to be none other than young Villiers, who was shot in a duel by Captain de S. Circumstances occured which rendered it impossible for him to write to you an explanation of his strange conduct; and when he had reached his post he could not remember where your address was. Yesterday, for the first time, he returned to Paris, and has lost no time in paying you a visit in order to offer you his humble apologies for any annoyance and vexation he may have caused you. And now, monsieur, I have to speak to you on another matter. My nephew, it seems, became deeply enamored of your daughter, whom to see once," added the General, bowing courteously to the young lady, "is to admire for ever; and it is his wish to be allowed to continue an acquaintance which, begun by accident, so to speak, may, he fervently hopes, ripen to a closer connection between him and the young lady. In a word, he wishes to obtain your sanction to be permitted to pay his addresses to your lovely daughter."

"But it is impossible, General," replied Monsieur Heppe, who, if the truth were known, now sincerely regretted that he had ever encouraged his neighbor Lamont; "I have given my consent to this gentleman to try and gain An

nette's affections."

Beaufort's heart sunk within him at those words; but on raising his eyes, he found those of Annette fixed on him with such an earnest and significant look, that he felt assured that she loved him. "Dear father," she said, "I would like to say a word to Monsieur Lamont in private."

And when they were alone, she told him that it had all along been her intention to reject the honor of his suit, even if the unexpected visit of General de G- and his nephew had not taken place.

Monsieur Lamont bore his refusal, it must be said, admirably; and as he left the room, assured her that though he could not but regret, for his own and son's sake, the decision at which she had arrived, he should never cease to pray for her future happiness.

In a whirl of mingled joy and ecstacy Annette hastened down to her favorite arbor in the garden, where of late she had spent many and many a sad hour alone. She felt she must be alone; she must collect her thoughts before again meeting, face to face, the man whom she felt she loved so dearly.

But whether it was that Beaufort had seen her go down the garden, or whether he was in possession of some mysterious charm that revealed to him where the fair girl was, I cannot say. At all events she had not been long in her secret bower before she felt herself clasped in the embrace of her lover, who found little difficulty in wringing from her lips a confession that made the warm blood course through her veins, and filled him, too, with indescribable delight.

It need scarcely be added that Beaufort did not return to his duties alone. A week before his departure, their marriage was celebrated with becoming magnificence; and every one seemed happy and delighted at the turn events had taken, except the old servant, who could not yet feel sure whether his young mistress's husband was really a ghost or not!

Fraser's Magazine,

ARE THERE JEWS IN CORNWALL? A RIDDLE AND ITS SOLUTION.

BY PROFESSOR MAX MÜLLER.

THERE is hardly a book on Cornish history or antiquities in which we are not seriously informed that at some time or other the Jews migrated to Cornwall, or worked as slaves in Cornish mines. Some writers state this simply as a fact requiring no further confirmation; others support it by that kind of evidence which Herodotus, no doubt, would have considered sufficient for establishing the former presence of Pelasgians in different parts of Greece, but which would hardly have

satisfied Niebuhr, still less Sir G. C. Lewis. Old smelting-houses, they tell us, are still called Jews' houses in Cornwall; and if, even after that, anybody could be so skeptical as to doubt that the Jews, after the destruction of Jerusalem, were sent to work as slaves in the Cornish mines, he is silenced at once by an appeal to the name of Marazion, the well known town opposite St. Michael's Mount, which means the "bitterness of Zion," and is also called Market Jew. Many a traveler has no doubt shaken his unbelieving head, and asked himself how it is that no real historian should ever have mentioned the migration of the Jews to the Far West, whether it took place under Nero or under one of the later Flavian emperors. Yet all the Cornish guides are positive on the subject, and the prima facie evidence is certainly so startling, that we can hardly wonder if certain anthropologists discovered even the sharply marked features of the Jewish race among the sturdy fishermen of Mount's Bay.

Before we examine the facts on which this Jewish theory is founded,-facts, as will be seen, chiefly derived from names of places, and other relics of languageit will be well to inquire a little into the character of the Cornish language, so that we may know what kind of evidence we can expect from such a witness.

The ancient language of Cornwall, as is well known, was a Celtic dialect, closely allied to the language of Brittany and Wales, and less nearly though by no means distantly related to the language of Ireland, Scotland, and the Isle of Man. Cornish began to die out in Cornwall about the time of the Reformation, being slowly but surely supplanted by English, till it was buried with Dolly Pentreath and similar worthies about the end of the last century. Now there is in most languages, but more particularly in those which are losing their consciousness or their vitality, what, by a name borrowed from geology, may be called a metamorphic process. It consists chiefly in this, that words, as they cease to be properly understood, are slightly changed, generally with the object of imparting to them once again a more intelligible meaning. The new meaning is mostly a mistaken one, yet it is not only readily accepted, but the

word in its new dress and with its new character is frequently made to support facts and fiction which could be supported by no other evidence. Who does not believe that sweetheart has something to do with heart? Yet it was originally formed like drunk-ard, dull-ard and nigg-ard; and poets, not grammarians, are responsible for the mischief it may have done under its plausible disguise. By the same process, shamefast, formed like steadfast, and still properly spelt by Chaucer and in the early editions of the Authorized Version of the Bible, has long become shamefaced, bringing before us the blushing roses of a lovely face. The Vikings, mere pirates from the viks or creeks of Scandinavia, have, by the same process, been raised to the dignity of kings; just as coat cards-the king, and queen, and knave in their gorgeous gowns-were exalted into court cards.

Although this kind of metamorphosis takes place in every language, yet it is most frequent in countries where two languages come in contact with each other, and where, in the end, one is superseded by the other. The name of Oxford contains in its first syllable an old Celtic word, the well known term for water or river, which occurs as ux in Uxbridge, as ex in Exmouth, as ax in Axmouth, and in many more disguises down to the whisk of whiskey, the Scotch Usquebaugh.* In the name of the Isis, and of the suburb of Osney, the same Celtic word has been preserved. The Saxons kept the Celtic name of the river, and they called the place where one of the Roman roads crossed the river Ox, Orford. The name, however, was soon mistaken and interpreted as purely Saxon; and if any one should doubt that Oxford was a kind of Bosphorus, and meant a ford for oxen, the ancient arms of the city were readily appealed to in order to cut short all doubts on the subject.

Similar accidents happened to Greek words, after they were adopted by the people of Italy, particularly by the Romans. The Latin orichalcum, for instance, is simply the Greek word ορείχαλκος, from opos, mountain, and χαλκός, copper. Why it was called mountain

copper, no one seems to know. It was originally a kind of fabulous metal, brought to light from the brains of the poet rather than from the bowels of the earth. Though the poets, and even Plato, speak of it as, after gold, the most precious of metals, Aristotle sternly denies that there was any real metal corresponding to the extravagant description of the opɛixaλxos, Afterwards the same word was used in a more sober and technical sense, though it is not always easy to say when it means copper, or bronze, (i.e. copper and tin), or brass (i. e. copper and zinc). The Latin poets not only adopted the Greek word in the fabulous sense in which they found it used in Homer, but forgetting that the first portion of the name was derived from the Greek opos, hill, they pronounced and even spelt it as if derived from the Latin aurum, gold, and thus found a new confirmation of its equality with gold, which would have surprised the original framers of that curious compound.*

In a county like Cornwall, where the ancient Celtic dialect continued to be spoken, though disturbed and overlaid from time to time by Latin, Saxon, and Norman,-where Celts had to adopt certain Saxon and Norman, and Saxons and Normans certain Celtic words, we have a right to expect an ample field for observing this metamorphic process, and for tracing its influence in the transformation of names, and in the formation of legends, traditions, nay even, as we shall see, in the production of generally accepted historical facts. To call this process metamorphic, using that name in the sense given to it by geologists, may, at first sight, seem pedantic and far-fetched. But if we see how a new language forms what may be called a new stratum covering the old language; how the life or heat of the old language, though apparently extinct, breaks forth again through the superincumbent crust, destroys its regular features and assimilates its stratified layers with its own igneous or volcanic nature, our comparison, though somewhat elaborate, will be justified to a

great extent, and we shall only have to ask our geological readers to make allowance for this, that in languages the foreign element has always to be considered as the superincumbent stratum, Cornish forming the crust to English or English to Cornish, according as the speaker uses the one or the other as his native or as his acquired speech.

Our first witness in support of this metamorphic process is Mr. Scawen, who lived about two hundred years ago, a true Cornishman, though writing in English, or in what he is pleased so to call. In blaming the Cornish gentry and nobility for having attempted to give to their ancient and honorable names a kind of Norman varnish, and for having adopted new-fangled coats of arms, Mr. Scawen remarks on the several mistakes, intentional or unintentional, that occurred in this foolish process. "The grounds of two several mistakes," he writes, "are very obvious: 1st, upon the Tre or Ter; 2d, upon the Ross or Rose. Tre or Ter in Cornish, commonly signifies a town, or rather place, and it has always an adjunct with it. Ti is the number 3. Those men willingly mistake one for another. And so in French heraldry terms, they used to fancy and contrive those with any such three things as may be like, or cohere with, or may be adapted to any thing or things in their surnames, whether very handsome or not is not much stood upon. Another usual mistake is upon Ross, which, as they seem to fancy, should be a Rose, but Ross in Cornish is a vale or valley. Now for this their French-Latin tutors, when they go into the field of Mars, put them in their coat armor prettily to smell out a Rose or flower (a fading bonor instead of a durable one); so any three such things, agreeable perhaps a little to their names, are taken up and retained from abroad, when their own at home have a much better scent and more lasting."

See the learned essay of M. Rossignol, "De

ags," in his work, "Les Métaux dans l'Antiquite." Paris: 1863.

NEW SERIES- Vol. VI., No. 1.

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