of relief, became hourly more obscure. She had gathered together such few trinkets and ornaments as still remained in her possession, and had resolved on seeking humbler lodgings; though, poor girl, it was with sad anticipation she looked forward to the future; she saw no means of saving herself and her parent from absolute want, unless she hired herself out as a common servant, and this she more than half resolved on doing. About mid-day, a crowd of people entered the precincts of the hitherto sacred home, and with them came the auctioneer. To escape their gaze, she shut herself up in another apartment, from which she heard the furniture disposed of piecemeal. Soon all was over, and the people departed. The landlord came, and informed her, that as the new tenant did not take possession for a few days, she was welcome to remain till she found another house, if, by the delay, she was likely to be more favourably situated. Malina thanked him, and replied, she hoped to be able to quit soon, and with this assurance he departed. A desolating feeling sunk into the hearts of the little family, after the worst had subsided, and the gray curtains of evening began to close around them. Within, all was dreary and comfortless; the rooms looking bare and empty, and echoing the sound of the voice with a sort of hollow mockery. Malina noticed that old Nanny had disappeared; she had not been seen since morning, neither could the widow recollect of her having gone out on any errand. Just as they were becoming very uneasy regarding her, fearing she had gone out and been run over in the street, or had met with some one of the hundred accidents daily occurring, they were fortunately relieved by her entrance. Without pausing, and evidently labouring under some excited feeling, she begged Malina to put on her shawl and bonnet and accompany her out a little. The young lady, surprised at such a request, demurred at first against compliance, inquiring where she meant to take her to. "Dinna speir mony questions, else we may be ower langsome. Ye needna be feart to gang wi' me; I winna tak' ye whaur ony ill can befa' ye. It's a' on my ain account I want ye; sae come awa'." Malina thought a moment whether to comply or not with such a strange request. She had every confidence in Nanny's integrity; perhaps the errand was, after all, a trivial one; perhaps there was something important in it. Curiosity was aroused-and what will a female not do when this feeling is awakened. Hesitating, she consented, saying, "Well, for your own sake, Nanny, I will go; but I hope the errand will be of some use to you." The two departed. Malina accompanying her conductress through a number of streets, wondering in her own heart what Nanny meant, being forbid to ask any questons, on the ground that "it wad spile a' to speak o't;" but wondering, most of all, when she saw her stop at a door, in a fashionable row, and ring the bell. It was opened, and silently Nanny caught her by the arm, half-leading, half-dragging her into a handsomely furnished apartment, and bidding her sit down, left her, stating that she would return in a minute or two. A vague uncomfortable fear seized Malina at being thus left; her first impulse was to run after Nanny and demand a satisfactory explanation; her second, summarily to quit the house. But a moment's reflection banished any doubt she might entertain of Nanny's integrity, and forbade the idea that any harm could possibly arise from waiting to see the result. Most probably, thought she, some lady wishes a governess for her family, and Nanny may have been making application for me; or some other situation may have turned up. I shall see my employer immediately. Entertaining this as the most probable idea, she, feeling more at ease, began to cast her eyes about the room; but guess her astonishment, on perceiving a number of the very articles adorning it which lately graced her own humble home. She thought she must be deceived-it was quite impossible-but, no! another glance assured her of the identity of the articles, particularly of a pair of water-colour sketches, the product of her own labour. With strangely agitated heart, she looked around in wonder and suspense, in no way lessened by the door suddenly opening, and a stalworth young man, of about six and twenty, entering, followed by old Nanny. He was dressed rather in a nautical than land costume, and a certain indescribable air about him, together with a bronzed though handsome face, conveyed the impression that a good part of his life had been spent on the ocean. He noticed Malina's confusion, and politely requesting her to be seated, followed the example, observing, with a smile, "I suppose, Miss Neale, you will have forgotten me. It is so long now. A long untouched chord vibrated in Malina's heart as he pronounced the words. Like one awakened from a dream, she stammered out "What! Vincent." "Yes, the same," he replied, "runaway Vincent; but I hope returned at last to be of some service to my old friends." So saying, he rose, and offered her his hand, which she at once took. "I thought," observed he, after a pause, "I would have had a great deal to say to you, but somehow I find myself adrift in a fog. I suppose, however, I must assign some reason for my sudden appearance after such an absence. It is a long story, but to cut it short, the substance of it is this:-After leaving, as I did in the silence of night, your kind father's home, I proceeded by all the by-paths I could find, to the nearest sea-port town. There, a skipper took me up as cabin boy, from which, after much knocking about and rough handling, I gradually rose to the command of a merchant vessel. I never forgot my old benefactors, and resolved, so soon as fate permitted, on revisiting them. Only on returning from my last voyage, a few weeks since, did opportunity present itself. I hurried down to Lylestane; but judge my dismay and sorrow on learning that your father was no more, and that you had gone to Edinburgh, though none could say how I should find you there. On my return, I accidentally encountered, in the street, Nanny. We recognised each other, and from her I obtained an account of your many trials. I imposed silence on her, and we planned together the meeting of to-night. I hope you will not say I have done wrong?" Oh, no! surely not," replied Malina, scarcely confident whether it was not still all an illusion. "One thing more," returned he, drawing himself closer, "I have been too long at sea to acquire much eloquence of speech, nor have I hitherto had much occasion for such a quality; but I have one request to make -one favour to ask which I would entreat with all the heartfelt sincerity a seaman can be supposed to entertain, because I feel it to be an imperative matter of duty-nay, more than duty. It is just this, Miss Neale that you and your mother will unconditionally make this your home, till you find a better. I owe this much, at least, to you, for the kindness you once showed me, when a houseless, wandering, nameless, boy kindness which I can never expect to repay. Say, do you agree?" Malina's eyes were suffused with tears, which she vainly struggled to hide. Her heart was too full of strange, whirling, yet pleasing sensations, for utterance. She had no other alternative what could she do but accept the offer? "Then," said Vincent, "permit me to send Nanny for your mother, who, I hope, will agree to the arrangements." Mrs. Neale was prevailed upon to accept the temporary offer; but, somehow, we do not pretend fully to explain it, Malina made rather a longer stay than a mere temporary one. The truth must out. Some months after, as Vincent, Mrs. Neale, and Malina, were seated together in conversation, in the same room, Nanny entered, and addressed the latter as Mrs. Leroux. Such was really the case. TO THE CLYDE. Q'ER all the streams that Scotia pours, With warmest love my heart still turns, Fair, winding Clyde, to thee! Through scenes where brightest beauty smiles Thy placid waters glide, Linked to a thousand memories sweet, My own, my native Clydę! Let others love the tangled Forth, Or mountain-shadow'd Spey; The Don, the Dee, wake others glee, From all their charms of wood or wild, To where the golden apple gleams, It is not that thy heaving breast "Tis not thy cities fair to see, Thy castled homes of pride, That knit this heart in love to thee, Thou proudly rolling Clyde! An heir of poverty and toil, Thy wealth to me is naught, Yet thou hast treasures to my soul COLINSLIE. The homes of living, and the graves Oh! honied were my joys, I ween, Then daisied fields to me were wealth, The larks' far streams of glee. How loved I, on thy pebbled marge, Or chasing wide the painted fly, Each smiling season, then, had charms- Summer brought aye the rushy cap, The dandelion chain; While hips and haws, like gems, were strewn But years of mingled weal and woe, Have pass'd; and friends are scatter'd now, Or slumbering in the grave: The dust of time has dimm'd my soul, And, 'neath vile passion's sway, Its freshness and its bloom have pass'd Yet, still I love thee, gentle Clyde; For aye, as with a spell, Thou bring'st me back the cherish'd forms In memory's haunts that dwell. Like sunshine on the distant hills, Life's early joys I see; And from the brightness of the past I dream what heaven may be. Dear stream! long may thy hills be green, Thy woods in beauty wave, Thy daughters still be chaste and fair, Thy sons be true and brave! And, oh! when from this weary heart Has ebbed life's purple tide, May it be mine, 'mongst those I've loved, H. M. THE BATTLE OF LIFE. BY CHAS. DICKENS.* THE era of annuals is on the wane. The "Coronals," "Wreaths," and "Keepsakes," of former years, anxiously looked forward to by us in our younger days, as suitable presents to country cousins, whose favour their glittering sides and manifold illustrations never failed to secure, are no more. It is true, their literary merits were seldom of any high order; but what of that? Who ever thought of presenting good literature in such circumstances? Sentimental poetry and love tales-German or Italian, if possible-effected what a hundred volumes of history or political economy could never have accomplished, viz., a warm reception at the holidays, and a pleasant partner to spend evening parties with during their continuance. Even a series of portraits of the nobility was unable to resuscitate a flagging interest on their behalf-their star was set. With regret do we look upon the departure of all these old friends, towards whom, on account of the many pleasant associations connected with their appearance, we ever felt kindly disposed; and would not, on any account, have been betrayed into a heartless criticism of their contents. And when we look at their successors-so many utilitarian-professing tales and maudlin-philosophy poems-we do so with considerable suspicion. We doubt if the children of this generation are wiser than their fathers, and feel a kind of hankering after the good old days of annuals, clad in green and gold bindings, with loyal frontispiece portraits of the reigning sovereign. The birth of this new spirit of the age may be dated some four years back, from the appearance of Mr. Dickens's first Christmas offering; and we presume it has been found a most profitable speculation, from the host of imitators who have followed in that gentleman's path. This year, we have been literally besieged with Christmas tales. Scarcely had summer closed, ere the magazine advertisement sheets teemed with intimations of forthcoming tales by Mrs. Gore, Miss Toulmin, Mr. Soane, and half-a-dozen others, all struggling for precedence in the field. But how it comes that they all chose the same period for their productions, does not seem quite clear. Why might we not have mid-summer tales, or spring stories, as well as Christmas ones? then one would at least have leisure to read them all in season. We merely suggest this in passing; perhaps necessity-if the competitors increase in the same ratio as they are now doing-will compel such an arrangement for the ensuing years. Of Mr. Dickens, as a writer, enough almost has already elsewhere been said. No man has more rapidly risen to fame, or with so little effort has caught the floodtide to popularity; and few novelists have written many things so well, and some things so indifferently. Confined to his own sphere that of delineation of Cockney life and manners-be exhibits the hand of a master, and a thorough insight of character; but *London: Bradbury & Evans. 1847. |