SHAKSPEARE. "MR. TREVETHLAN PENDARREL"-- The gentleman so addressed put down an untasted glass of wine with which he was about to give zest to his luncheon, and he looked towards the lady who spoke. She was reading a newspaper. "Did you observe this?" she continued. "We regret to announce the death of Henry Trevethlan, Esq., of Trevethlan Castle!" "My poor nephew!" exclaimed the gentleman. The lady flung a glance upon him, which made him lower his eyes, and read on. "He is succeeded in his estates--his estates!--by his son Randolph Trevethlan, Esq., who, with his sister, is now at the castle." Mr. Pendarrel, probably thinking of the look which had just rebuked him, made no further observation. "Have you nothing to remark upon this intelligence?" asked his wife. "No commiseration for your great nephew and niece, as well as their father?" "They must be very poor," her husband answered. "Anything I can do--" "Anything you can do, Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel!" the lady exclaimed, interrupting him sharply. "You must buy me the castle, and they may live on the price. 'Pendar'l and Trevethlan shall own one name!'" She laid aside the newspaper, and rising, walked to and fro in the apartment, speaking in a tone free from the irony and scorn which had given an unfeminine expression to her previous words. "Let me see. Seventeen, ninety-six-seven--Randolph must be just of age. And Helen a year or two younger. Poor! Indeed they must be poor. The castle will be very ornamental as a ruin. Already it is more picturesque than habitable. They will be relieved to have it taken off their hands. And we can be generous. If not, what do they know? Why, Randolph has never slept away. They must be as wild as mountain-goats. And their society! What ideas can they have formed of life? Yet we may be generous; if they like, friendly. There is a pleasant cottage on the shore under Pendarrel: comfortable; suitable for straitened means; in wild scenery, like Trevethlan. They might have it at an easy rent; or in part purchase of the castle." Thus, Alnaschar-like, Mrs. Pendarrel accomplished in reverie what had long been the settled purpose of her mind. Such was the vision that rose from her basket of crockery. She was a woman of genius, and knew it, and loved the knowledge. "Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel, have you yet finished your luncheon? Then follow me to the library. You must write to Randolph; and I shall go down to Cornwall next week, and visit him and his sister." In the library the lady dictated the letter which the reader has already perused. When her husband looked over what he had written, he ventured to remonstrate. "Do you not think, my dear Esther, this is rather, just a little, the least in the world; you know what I mean." "No, I do not, Mr. Trevethlan Pendarrel. I am not initiated in the mysteries of your office, where they use language to conceal their thoughts."