the intuition of regard he guessed the position of affairs, and on the following day called with = his sister. Ellen Dawson was a little, slightly deformed girl; but a beautiful spirit inhabited that frail body, and shone forth in every word and action. It was a bright day for Laura in which she came to know this family; under the healthy influence of their upright minds and unaffected manners, she revived from the mental and physical apathy into which she was fast sinking. Life received a fresh impetus; new purposes, employments, and ideas were engendered; she felt the blessing of an interchange of sympathies, and learned to sce all things from a brighter point of view. Gradually she came to have more confidence in her own powers, and acquired a certain studied ease and grace of manner and address; her mother and sister-in-law became less dreaded, and being so, became more endurable; her domestic and social duties were better understood, and consequently acquired interest. Gerald alone had still the same power to dwarf her thoughts and faculties by contempt, or raise her spirits to a giddy height by praise or demonstrations of affection. For him, for his love, his approbation, she lived and strove; he was the sun of her life; and when, as was too often the case, clouds came between her and it, all seemed cold and cheerless. He was still her idol, her ideal of perfection; she was proud, so proud of his talents, and deemed in her humility that her own demerits alone prevented him from being ever kind. What a merciful interposition of Providence that is, which gives to women this faculty and propensity for making and seeing an idol in the person of their lover or husband; surely no man would be cruel or mad enough to wish to deprive them of it, or render them more clear-sighted. Mr. and Mrs. Allen, in their remote home, knew nothing of what was going on, for Laura loved them too well to grieve them by any account of annoyances; of her husband she always spoke with all the affection she felt, and touched as lightly as possible on unpleasant topics; so the good old couple were happy in their ignorance. Gerald, impulsive as ever, found that his profession brought in very little, that his expenses were increasing, and that his father was getting tired of supplying his extravagances. Debts were incurred; money became every day scarcer; and the young wife was initiated into a new domestic annoyance, and taught all the miseries of genteel poverty. Endurance is, however, one of the virtues of gentle natures, and perseverance and tact enabled her to meet the evil, and shield her husband in a great measure from it, at least from all its hourly petty details. Satisfied to escape them, Gerald never wasted a thought upon the matter, or if he had done so, would probably have deemed that Laura only did her duty, especially if she considered that he who could have made such a good match threw himself away upon her. Sacrifices from men to women cannot be too gratefully received, too highly lauded; sacrifices from women to men are mere every-day duties. Ellen and Mrs. Dawson were of infinite service to Laura under these circumstances; they not only taught her the art of economy ruled by taste, but elevated her mind, and gave her courage. Henry seldom was at home when she came, and still more rarely called on Gerald. To him she was so superior to all other women he had ever met, that he liked not to trust himself in her company, and could not feel at ease in the society of his quondam friend; nor did Geraid care to seek him; Henry was, in his parlance, "too slow" to be an agreeable companion. How little does the world know of actualities! Let us enter that crowded drawing-room, and approach one of the chief groups; we see all hanging upon the words of an elegant-looking man; we hear murmurs of applause, of admiration, at the eloquence, the sentiment, the talent of his language; we behold his courtesy, his suavity, the harmonious expression of his fine features; matrons feel honoured by his acquaintance; young ladies eagerly seek a bow, a word, and inquire if he is a bachelor, and sigh when informed that he is married. Where is his wife? In a small neat house in one of the new suburbs we find a fair young woman seated by a scanty fire, busily sewing by the light of one tallow candle; an unlighted pair of moulds stand upon the table. The furniture is all smart, and evidently very carefully kept; the pale seamstress-for such one would have deemed her, to have seen how industriously she plied her needle-was scrupulously neat, although her attire had a shabby-genteel appearance; her large brown eyes were hollow, her cheeks thin. The clock struck twelve; she arose and made up the fire, drew an arm-chair into the most comfortable position, fetched a dressing-gown and pair of slippers, and put them to air, and then reseated herself, pausing from her work occasionally when a footstep came down the quiet street. At length came the one she watched for; and hastily lighting the other candles, she was at the door almost before the knocker had ceased to resound. A gentleman entered, and passed at once into the parlour, leaving her to close and fasten the door. It is a beautiful night," she observed as she came back. "Did you walk all the way?" Yes, and am confoundedly tired! ring the bell, Laura; I should like some brandy and water.” "Ann is gone to bed, dear Gerald, and-" "What on earth do you let that girl go to bed for before I come home? "Tis always the way." "She has to get up early to-morrow on account of the wash!" I An oath escaped his lips, and he said, "Well, suppose you can get me some?" 66 But there is no brandy in the house." "Of course not such management! but what could I expect! And no supper on the table either; I dare say you have nothing to give me." "I thought you would have supped at the Gardiners', and so prepared nothing.' 66 Supped! do you call sandwiches the size of a half-crown, wafer biscuits, and atoms of pound cake, a supper! How can you be such a fool! Let me have whatever is in the house." In a few moments the tray, with bread, cheese, and butter, was on the table. "Well, where's the meat? What had you for dinner?" "Ann finished the steak you left, Gerald; and I-I did not want any." "Laura! forgive me! I see it all now-you had no money to get a dinner; and I, brute that I was, dined sumptuously, and never thought of you. Can you forgive me?" "Dearest Gerald! indeed I did not feel hungry!" 66 You are an angel to say so, and I am unworthy of you." The young wife put her arms around his neck, and rested her weary head on his shoulder; tears glittered upon her long lashes, but for the moment she was happy-memories of the past, fears for the future, all were blotted out by the kind words, the fond embrace, of him she loved as truly, as devotedly now as in the days of their courtship. She heard him promise amendment, nor remembered how often he had done so before; she drank in each word of tenderness-it was dew to the thirsty flower-and slept that night blissfully as a child. Gerald's promises were but words, sounds floating on the air, and then dying away. The death of old Mr. Mervalle hastened the downward career of our hero. The old gentleman had greatly impaired his fortune by ministering to the extravagancies of his son, and his widow and child found themselves but slenderly provided for. This did not increase their regard for Gerald's wife; for, prejudiced as they had ever been against her, they of course regarded her as the cause of his follies; her mismanagement, her stupidity and inferiority, were the never-failing themes; but now they began to include him in their censures, and discovered that he was selfish, extravagant, and idle. Nor were they long in letting him see and hear their opinions; and Gerald had been too long a spoilt child to bear blame or reproaches patiently. Laura now needed all her forbearance; compelled by stern necessity to work, Gerald pitied himself exceedingly, and visited on his wife all the ill-temper thus engendered. But her greatest trial was when he fell into habits of inebriety. To see the being to whom, in spite of all previous errors, she yet looked up, whom she yet loved, become debased and brutalized--his intellect besotted-a helpless, tottering, idiot-like thing-was fearful! the altar was desecrated, the barrier of love and respect torn down; a pity too near contempt to have any relation to love took possession of her. She still fulfilled all her duties, still softened to him as much a possible the trials of their life, still studied his wishes and comforts; but there was no heart, no energy in what she did, it was the action of an automaton; the spring, the motive power of her life, was gone. She seldom saw the Dawsons now, though their spirit watched over her, and tender, consoling, judicious letters from Ellen cheered her on. Gerald could not endure that his former friends should witness his poverty and humiliation, and accordingly shunned them, and Henry most of all. His companions were now such men as he met with at the low taverns where he spent most of his evenings. Just about this time old Mr. Allen died, in happy ignorance of his darling child's fate. He bequeathed all his little property to his wife, and at her death it was to be Laura's. Gerald had reckoned upon receiving some then and there, and finding himself disappointed, vented his anger on his wife, and drank the deeper to drown thought. Poor Laura, who would have gone barefoot to Wales, had it been possible to have seen her beloved parent before he died, and received his blessing, had not only her grief on account of his death to bear, but another and a serious embarrassment created by her mother expressing a wish to come and live with her. How to decline she knew not; yet she could not receive the visit, could not permit her mother to behold all the misery of their domestic life; could not expose her to Gerald's vehemence, to all the annoyances she herself suffered; and worst of all, the wife feared to trust her mother with her husband, feared that he would borrow and demand money until all was gone. Bitterly had Laura learned the lessons of experience of distrust: gone was all that beautiful faith in human virtue, blighted was hope; young in years, but old in cares, she no longer saw in life a garden of flowers, but rather a thorny brake; no longer met each individual with confidence and pleasure, but regarded all with suspicion; since he, the chosen of all, the trusted, respected, idolized one, had fallen from his high estate, all were depreciated in her eyes. Every dream of her youth had fled; reality in all its coldness, all its hardness, was ever before her. But "sweet are the uses of adversity." Under its influence Laura became a new creature; energies and powers of which she was before unconscious developed themselves, and yet she became in one sense more humble. She trusted the creature less, the Creator more implicitly! The present no longer was the most engrossing; but while she toiled and strove for worldly necessities, her thoughts, her aspirations, ascended above the things of this earth, the fleeting, perishing joys of this life, and sought to fix themselves on those joys, that peace, which are eternal. Gerald had long ceased to regard his wife as anything better than a domestic slave, a thing to vent his spleen on, a machine to minister to his comfort or gratification. Of course he did not say this in actual words, nevertheless so it was. We seldom care, even to ourselves, to confess the extent of our egotism and heartless selfish -- ness; nay, we should often be startled, if we could see our own utter heedlessness of the feelings of others. Men do not mean often to be so unkind as they actually are; 'tis the fault of their education of their being early taught that they are the "lords of creation"-of the silly fondness of mothers for their " darling boys"-and, above all, of their utter ignorance of the nature of women; their utter contempt for her weakness, for those very weaknesses which man's own conduct induce. They condemn her to a routine of dull duties, insipid amusements, and frivolous pursuits; exclude her from everything like confidence; do not condescend to unveil to her their own mental powers, their opinions, nor inform her as to their occupations or affairs. They will not mould the plastic mind of a woman into the form they would be most benefited by its assuming, but leave weeds, flowers, or dank grass to vegetate as chance may determine, and have only a toy, or a domestic drudge, instead of an intellectual and devoted friend and companion. A low fever, resulting from intemperance, disappointment, and irritation, laid the once handsome and admired Gerald Mervalle on a bed of sickness. Laura was his nurse as well as supporter; for, with the exception of the Dawsons, no one came near them. Mrs. and Miss Mervalle had gone to Boulogne for cheapness. Weary was the sickness, sad and solemn the death of poor Gerald; but Laura had the consolation of knowing, that during the last few days of his life he loved her once more, and was grateful and penitent. Ellen Dawson was with her in her hour of mourning, ready to soothe, and to whisper of that spiritual consolation which alone can give peace to the afflicted. Henry was there to do a brother's duty, and see all the last sad offices performed for his departed companion. Imme diately after the funeral Laura quitted London, without one regret but that of parting from the Dawsons, and returned to her native village and her kind old mother. Some years afterwards Henry Dawson, finding himself in a position to maintain a wife, sought the young widow, and offered her his hand. His suit was gently but firmly rejected. The trials of the past had debilitated Laura's health; she felt that she was not long for this world; Lesides, the calm of the last few years, the soothing happy influences of nature, and of all the associations and habits of her youth, seemed such bliss compared with even the happiest portions of her sojourn in London, that the bare thought of ever returning to that vast city, that emporium of splendour and misery, made her shudder. She was grateful to Henry, but her heart was weaned from the world; she could not have again made "A human eye the only star of her idolatry." A simple marble slab, with the initials L. M., marks her grave in the little church-yard of A——; and the memory of her charities and her meek christian piety still lives in the hearts of many of the villagers. THIRTON HALL. BY A. T*. Oh! a lonesome spot is Thirton Hall, So enshrouded in blackest gloom That the light zephyrs and fitful breeze Scarce dare to stir the gnarled trees, Where the sunbeams never come. The distorted branches over-head Shut out every glimpse of sky; The ivy upon the walls doth grow, The toad and the adder lurk below, And each bird flies quickly by- Save the dark raven and the owl, Which at night-time hover round, The plants are chok'd in the flower-beds Which the dwarf-ash trees flank. Black mosses now obscure the face Of the sun-dial old and grey; For all fear to pass that way. Yet Thirton Hall was chcerful once, Nor far removed's the time When fair dames wander'd o'er the greenWhen hoary age might there be seen, And manhood's noble prime. Gaily then round the social hearth The laugh and the jest would rise— E'en the grim portraits from each nook Appear'd to wear a softened look, "Neath the light of loving eyes. And the garden was a beauteous place- By a lady, the loveliest of her race, To the inmates of Thirton Hall. Her breath was like the rose's scent, When 'tis wafted on summer wind; Her eyes eclips'd the violet's hue, One glance at those orbs of deepest blue Left impassioned thoughts behind. Her airy step scarce bow'd the grass Her hair, of the chestnut brown, Wantoned around her temples white, And almost veil'd her form from sight When its bright lengths hung down. But though so lov'd, a pensive shade Would oft on her sweet face be; And the words she to her plants let fall Revealed that far from Thirton Hall Her heart and mind rov'd free. 342 Song of an Indian Woman in California to the Gold-Seekers. And one early morn, when autumn sad Had succeeded to summer hours, Then a change came over Thirton Hall, And the silence then seem'd heard. 'Twas broken at length, but by the sounds Were borne on the cold wind's breath. A darkness from the lone churchyard And the black-robed train that gather'd there Of the dweller in the tomb. The mansion grew a charnel-house, But when above the buried ones The grass was growing green, Where her happiest hours had been. Like the phantom of her former self, But a burning blush lent to her check When through the tears which dimm'd her eyes That night the village-gossips mark'd A form 'mongst the old trees stray, Which lingered there till morning bright Shook off the stars from her garb of light, And heralded new-born day. Ere the red sun resought the west They told her her watch was vain; But her dreamy eyes were fixed the while They're gone, but they'll come back!" When she sought the drear abode; One morn the peasant stood aghast, The tears were frozen on her cheek, And gleamed in her blue eye, Still turned towards the drifted trackAs if for those who came not back, In mute expectancy. The hall now bears an evil nameNot a child dare near it play; For angry threats and dying groans And weary sighs and feeble moans Are heard there night and day. And still amongst its mazes dark Ramsgate, March 10, 1849. SONG OF AN INDIAN WOMAN IN CA LIFORNIA TO THE GOLD-SEEKERS. Seeking gold ye come, ye come; Seeking gold-the shining stones All unconscious of the worth Seeking gold, thou mighty lure! Tell me, Pale Faces, with this gold Can it to the soul restore The loved, the lost, the dead once more? If such be its mighty worth, Oh, share with me the sacred earth! A. D. THE MONEY-CHANGER OF FRANKFORT. BY GEORGE J. O. ALLMANN. "Please you read." "Ich weiss nicht, ob täuschende Geister um diese Gegend schweben, oder ob die warme himmlische Phantasie in meinen Herzenist, die mir alles rings umher so paradiesisch macht." GÖTHE." Werther's Leiden.” BOOK II. CHAP. I. (Continued from page 266.) How strange is the first awakening of a person among strange scenes, and whom occurrences calculated to disturb the ordinary routine of life have suddenly befallen! The hurried start from sleep the confused images that crowd on the still half-slumbering brain-the vague fancies to which the scarce awakened thoughts give silent utterance-all tend to render it sad and foreboding. We experience some undefined consciousness of impending ill; some latent, lurking dread of that for which we can then scarcely find a tangible reason, or for which we can account in anything like a probable manner, and which always fixes itself firmly on the imagination-on the mind if you will; and these impart a tone to the general feeling, a heaviness and depression to the spirits, that are seldom banished without a severe, perhaps long, mental struggle, which costs some anguish, and requires no little moral strength of character. This peculiar, this unsubstantial sadness, weighed down the heart of Christian when he first awoke. His awakening was not sudden, or accompanied by a start of alarm, but of that extraordinary kind which we rarely experience, namely, when, without any apparent cause, we find ourselves as it were thoroughly awake without having any distinct remembrance of the natural effort which caused it. This mode of awakening frequently occurs to men who labour under the pressure of overwhelming anxiety; and its effects for the first few moments after the senses escape from the realms of sleep, are always appalling, and shadowed by images of gloom and ill-omen. Christian cast his eyes around, but in the neatly-furnished chamber in which he had passed the night beheld only what was strange to his eyes. Then came the first confused recollection of what had occurred; and after, as remembrance became more distinct and sense more defined, the first shock of heaviness he had experienced wore away, but still left an uncertain feeling of depression play ing about his heart, which he found it impossible to lessen or contend against. "How mysterious!" he mused; "how full of wonderment is that inert, inactive state of Being which we call Sleep! Sleep, that invisible chain of existence which almost unites us with creatures of another world, almost carries us away spell-bound into the realms of a faroff sphere! How intimate its affinity to the eternal slumber in silence and the tomb; and how immense must be the malleability of the mind, the participative power of the brain, to receive so readily and so effortless the deep impression which creates over the functions of the human habitation a different existence, during which the energies, not only active but passive, are employed, and in the various ramifications of slumber, enact their different parts in entire obedience to, yet acting in perfect concert and accord with each other! How long this reverie in which Christian was indulging might have lasted cannot precisely be estimated, but inasmuch as he, when once launched on to the sea of speculative thought, was scarcely ever known to furl his sail and put into port without some friendly pilot arousing him; so the duration of this mental communion on sleep might not so soon have ended, had it not been for the voice of his uncle, who, knocking at his door, summoned him to arise. Christian hastily started out of bed, and the active impulse thus created was sufficient to interrupt a train of thought, the prolongation of which would doubtless have been considered as uninteresting as it was lengthy. His toilet was soon despatched, and he descended to the breakfast parlour, where Constance and her father were already awaiting him. Both greeting him affectionately, the former pointed to a seat near to her father, with which Christian was not very well satisfied, as its propinquity to herself was not such as he could have wished; and he had therefore the uncommon boldness, as he took her hand, to seat himself in one much nearer to her. A slight |