was collected round the door, thronging the streets so that no vehicle could pass. There had been an arrival of a load or two of meal, for which some hundreds were scrambling, as if very life depended on their success. A few of the man's regular customers had little bags, with their names attached, which they endeavoured to pitch, over the heads of the throng, into the shop. These were filled, if seen, and laid aside till the rest was sold, which indeed was a matter of easy moment, for ere ten minutes had well elapsed, the supply was done, and the door closed. Phemie made her way through the crowd just as the last handful was sold. She turned again, and bent her steps sadly along the street. As she passed down the Abbey Close, a clamour of many voices, mingled with the sound of an alarum drum, smote her ears, and she met people hurrying along to and fro: women with aprons full of meal, and men with caps and dishes, of every conceivable kind, filled with the same precious dainty. The numbers increased as she went on, jostling and tearing past her, loaded and empty. Approaching the abbey, a scene quite indescribable was displayed. The vaults were broken openmeal and flour lay strewed in the street, long trails of it running every way. A dozen men surrounded the broken doors, doling it out to the crowd with all possible despatch, amid shouts, laughter, and execrations. Louder than all was the voice of Grumble Gibb, imprecating and beseeching, and feebly endeavouring to drag away the dispensers of the bounty. But his efforts were unavailing, and his entreaties unheeded, till a shout of "the volunteers," was heard in the rear. Quick as thought, the mass made off, sweeping everything along with them, and ere the burly volunteers, in their blue dresses, (who, sooth to say, made no untoward haste to capture any of the rabble,) were on the scene of warfare, the whole multitude were gone.

Phemie was carried along in the press, and in a few minutes found herself standing alone by the river side. Late rains had swollen it into a fearful torrent. It hurried and roared along, foaming and eddying over the banks, while the thunder of the falls drowned every other sound. Phemie looked at it and shuddered. A gnawing dreary desolation spread over her heart. She sat down on a stone and tried to weep, but could not; the fountain of tears was sealed. A dark cloud hung over and settled on her soul. She thought of her mother, brothers, and sisters, starving at home-helplessly, hopelessly dying. Already she felt its pangs loosening the chords of her own existence. Oh! it was a fearful thing thus slowly to perish. Then she thought of another and that thought was bitterest of all-she should never see Laurence Moreland again! Memory recalled the hours she had been happy with him, the gloaming walks, the whispered vows, the bright anticipations, long conned over and cherished. Now he was far at sea, and knew nothing of all her misery. She looked again upon the water. She felt something dragging her towards it. She strove to think of something else: there was a weight upon her brain-she could not. She essayed to pray-she got bewildered. An impulse drew her to the river brink; in vain she resisted. Looking down into it at her own dark shadow, she felt no fear. A power impelled her forward-soothingly pointed to an end of all sorrow. The demon SUICIDE stood over

her. She touched the dark stream with her foot; the water bubbled and circled round it. A wild whirl of chaotic madness and confusion rang in her mind. Heaven help her, poor girl! With upraised imploring eye she totters on its roaring verge. A moment more—a strong arm is round her, and a mellow voice shouts

"Hillo! Phemie, lass; shiver me but that's a rare mermaid taste you've got."

It was Laurence Moreland. Phemie heard the voice, and sank insensible in his arms. The astounded tar deposited her on the ground, and fetching a handful of water dashed it on her face, cursing his unfortunate imprudence in thus taking her all aback. In a few minutes she revived, half doubting whether it were not all a dream. No! it was no dream, but a joyful reality. Her heart throbbed with speechless gratitude as she leant on Laurence's arm, clinging for support; and he looked proud and happy as he said,

"Bless me, I had a long chase after you since I left your mother's, and had given it nigh up when you hove in sight at the water side. Let's go home now and make a night of it. I guess the youngsters are hungry, and will be screaming for their supper, now that they've got something to sharpen their grinders on."

This latter was true enough, as Phemie learned on her arrival, when she saw the youngsters seated around the table, on which were spread a quantity of edibles, such as could be had by the aid of the generous sailor's prize-money. And they did make a night of it. Aye, and many of them afterwards; for Laurence would insist, and that most pertinaciously, that Phemie and he should be spliced. There was really no resisting of him; and, being of an obliging turn, Phemie yielded. Perhaps, we dare almost affirm as much, she hoped matters would take such a turn, and was glad they did so. Not long after, prices fell, and food became more plenty than it had ever hitherto been. In later years, when the famine was numbered among the darker pages of life's history, Phemie, as she sat by the winter hearth, told a little group of clustering cherubs that nestled round her, whose relationship was painted on their features, the story of her hour of sorrow. Though then a staid matron, she never spoke or thought of that time, save with a shuddering awe. Heaven forbid, dear reader, you or we should e'er, from any such a cause, take such a walk!

A THOUSAND YEARS.

SUGGESTED BY A REMARK IN CONVERSATION ON A RIVER'S BANK.

A THOUSAND years that stream shall flow,

And roll as swift and strong as ever,

While generations come and go

To changes not unlike a river.

Those whirling pools that boil beneath,

Shall cease their mazy wheelings never;

And never shall the vital breath,

That animates the God-stamped clay,

Be stopp'd entirely, even tho' death
Stalks here and there, by night and day,
And takes his victims from the earth.
Yet, is it not, as one would say,
One falls to give the other birth,
Like drops that thither onward dash
Successively; and yet no dearth

Of rushing waters. On they splash
From mountain rills, cascades, and fountains ;
And dancing in the sunbeams, flash
Perennially, ere since the mountains

First wooed to their embrace the clouds,
Charged with their dripping wealth, amounting
To more than worth of gold.

Pour on and on, and yet unlost.

The floods

A drop may fall, and dashed abroad,

Ungathered by the hand-yet toss'd

'Mongst storm and tempest, 't will again

Re-circulate the world. And dost

Thou wish, my friend-would 't were not vain !— That when a thousand years have rolled,

We might our consciousness attain

Once more. That we might then behold

If ought and what were changed. If men

Still acted as before-for gold

Still bartering soul and God for gain;

With passions all as heretofore,

High virtue treated with disdain,

And self the god that men adore ;

As if the human mind were cast
In the same dies they were of yore,
With but one set for ages past,
And but one set for those to come;
And every age so like the last,

As cascades with their constant hum;
And nothing changed, save works of art,

An age's or a nation's sum

Of vaunted glory, now in ruin,

Like the last hope that glads the heart

Of heroes, when they fall subduing,

Yet die in vain-ere breath depart,

Their fall has proved their hope's undoing.

With nature still the same as ever,
And man in nature still the same;

The same banks bounding still the river,
And all unchanged, save in name.
Time alters language-all that's man's
Shall pass away, as erst they came;
A thousand years were but a trance-
Awaking, changed alone in feelings-
Tho' we had hoped men would advance
In innate virtue; such revealings
Would show to us our hope's illusions,

For tho' earth made ten thousand wheelings,
Still men would nurse their gross delusions.

"AULD ROBIN GRAY" IN PARIS.

A LETTER TO THE EDITOR.

"Dolce far nienté."

MY DEAR Sir, I was seated in my garden the other day after dinner, and, that being a time when all serious study or absorbing meditation is carefully eschewed, I had taken down that agreeable miscellany, "The Book of Scottish Song," of which you know I am extremely fond, and, now chanting a romance of other days, now repeating a lovelorn ballad, contrived to wile away an hour.

In the midst of my desultory prolusions, who should drop in upon me but my friend Dick Thomson. Dick, you must know, is my nearest neighbour, and he therefore contrives often to palm upon me those afternoons when he is particularly idle, during which friendly confabulations we often pleasantly imitate that celebrated American orator, who, when pleading some cause or other, began his oration at Adam, and would, doubtless, have come down to the present era, had he not been interrupted by the over-officious judge; but, as we have no such censor, we finish our orations when and how we please. You must know that my friend entertains some odd ideas, both of men and things; indeed, between you and me, it has been whispered to me, in the most mysterious manner, and, of course, under the seal of the greatest secrecy, that he is a little hypochondriacal, sometimes thinks himself unwell, when, in fact, there is nothing the matter, and has other strange fancies, which, however, I must for myself confess, as I could never discover, so neither do I believe. Be this, however, as it may, Dick was advised last spring, by his friend Dr. W., to take a journey for the benefit of his health. Dick complied, and as he had long entertained a wish to visit the continent, thither he resolved to take a summer ramble. He has just returned, and, of course, like all travellers, especially young ones, he has become very talkative and very amusing. The place to which, as a matter of course, every traveller first directs his steps, is the gay capital of France. To Paris Dick went, and, having a cousin of his own a student of medicine there, his first visit was to the "Quartier Latin." There he was introduced to as joyous a set of jolly young fellows as is anywhere to be found. How they spent their time I shall not stop here to inform you; but the first time you are west give me a call, Dick shall be sent for, and you shall, viva voce, hear his own relation; and as you know with what gusto he can relate a joke, I can promise you as rare a treat as you could desire. However, one of his reminiscences I must give you; and as it contains something curious, I have no doubt it will give you as much pleasure as it gave me. Dick having become very ceremonious, whenever he saw me, took off his chapeau, as he now calls his hat, and gave me a genuine French salaam; this I rose and returned in the same style, or as nearly as I could, accompanied, as you may conceive, with my usual quiet smile, for which you and my other friends so much

envy me.

On Dick's entrance I laid aside my book, when he ran on in his usual style, on what he had seen of men and things on his travels. He was amusing and entertaining as usual, and I did not attempt to interrupt

him; but I had either become inattentive, which Dick as a conteur mortally abhors, or his humour began to flag, when I took up the book I had been reading, and began to repeat aloud a favourite ballad of mine. I had not finished the first stanza, when I was interrupted by Dick, saying that he would tell me something about one of my favourite songs, which he was sure would please me. It was a circumstance which had occurred to him, he said, soon after his arival at Paris. "You know," said Dick, "that almost every lodging-house, or hotel, as they call them, has un beau jardin, or something which they dignify by that name. One afternoon we were amusing ourselves, as usual, with song and dance, in that attached to our hotel, when one of the songs sung very much struck me as one I had heard before. I listened, the tune had some resemblance, but when the singer had come to the third stanza, the words 'Robin Gray' acted like magic. I could scarcely wait till it was finished, so impatient was I to discover if I was correct in the conjecture I had formed. The moment the song was over, I declared that it was a Scottish one, and that I believed it to be the production of a noble Scottish lady. The young man who sung it, (a native of Strasbourg,) declared that such was impossible; that his mother had sung it to him in his cradle; that it was traditionally known by all his acquaintances as a French song or lai, which means, I believe, a pastoral song or ballad; and this he believed, and would maintain. He was corroborated in this by others present, students from various parts of France, who all declared they knew the song well, and had heard it sung familiarly from their childhood. This," said Dick, "staggered me; good manners prevented me from contradicting them, besides, was not particularly sure of the matter; but as such a singular coincidence was worth examination, I said nothing, promising, however, to investigate it on my return, and in the meantime requested a copy of the French song. From some cause or other I did not receive it till after my departure for the Netherlands, enclosed in a letter, full of some very pretty sentiment, which reached me at Aix." Upon this, Dick thrust his hand into his capacious pocket, and saying that as he was not very deeply read in that sort of literature, he had brought the papers with him to see what I could make of it, as I knew something more of the matter, and would examine it con amore; and having drawn forth a bundle of papers, carefully wrapped with silk tape, he selected one, and began to read as follows, which you may be sure was done in the most genuine Parisian accent, accompanied with the newest lisp :—

"MON CHER MONSIEUR B.-Je vous addresse la romance de Robin Gray, mal et mechament ecrit mais avec plaisir.

"Puisse t-elle vous rappeler un de vos amis Français aussi souvent, aussi agréablement que ce tendre lai vous rendre present à ma memoire.

"Puisse encore cette reminiscence de mes premières années militer en notre faveur, contre l'accusation si souvent répêté que le cœur Français ne souvient l'impression du moment, que pendant ce moment même. La larme de sympathie qu' enfant, j'ai versée pour la pauvre Jeannette se retrouvent encore maintenant dans mes yeux. Peut-etre á la verité le souvenir du berceau doit-il en revendiquer sa part. Recevez mes felicitations sur votre hereux revoir mes vœux pour que le bien etre dont vous jouissez se maintiene; pour que le bonheur plus grand que vous meritez se realise. Et puis, vive L'Angleterre ! vive La France! mais surtout vivent les hommes bons et loyaux comme vous.-Votre devoué,

"Paris, 2me Avril, '46.

"JEAN DUBOIS."