interested in the success of my instructions not to deliver them at once. They are to bring you home to England. My sister your playmate, Rose, little Lucy-has been recently married, and to her husband has devolved a church living, which he wishes to see worthily occupied. From my mother's representation of you, my dear sir, he and Lucy think that no one could so religiously fulfil its duties, and they urgently offer it to your acceptance."

Mr. Evelyn stretched out his trembling and powerless hands, and with heavy moisture standing in his eyes, whispered emphatically"It is too late!”

Rose turned to the window to conceal her emotion, and then remarked, in faltering tones"My father has suffered with much bodily infirmity. For nearly a year he has not been able to engage in any pastoral duty."

The young man regarded them anxiously for a moment, and then wishing to relieve the feelings which he had excited, he asked

"Married and gone," replied Rose, attempting faintly to smile, and then looking more sad than before; for a letter from her sister, freshly written, had disclosed all her trials and disappointments.

"Maud married!" he exclaimed, and his countenance changed in both expression and colour; but resuming, with an effort, his cheerful and cordial manner, he repeated-" Maud married!-then is my charming romance destroyed for ever! Do you remember, Rose?but no, you were too young to know it then; but Maud was the passion of my boyhood. What a bewitching little creature she was!-so beautiful and spirited and clever. I used to make a confidante of my mother, and assure her that if ever I got a wife it must be Maud Evelyn; and that early dream I never abandoned. Married and gone, without even giving me the honourable despair of a refusal, after all my hopes and fears, and plans and resolutions!"

There was a genuine sensibility in his voice and countenance, which he could not disguise by an affectation of gaiety; and Rose, who stood beside him with her full, serious eyes fixed on his, looked as if she was sorry also. "But I forgot to ask," he resumed, whom she is married, and whither she has

gone?"

to

"You are trimming your shrubs very carefully, Rose," said he, gravely, "so much so as to make me fear that you have resolved not to leave them."

She was busy in her garden, but stopped her work at his approach, and answered"You are not mistaken in your inference, Julian.”

"Then I have your decisive answer? I may tell our friends that you refuse to make them happy by influencing your father to yield to their solicitations?"

"Tell them I am grateful for their kindness, with my whole heart, but that my father, who is now unfitted for the station they offer him, declines to become an unprofitable tax upon their generosity; and that for myself, I feel my duty to lie even here. I am young and strong, endowed with ability of mind and body to maintain us both; and my sister, though not, indeed, present with us, is a constant weight upon my thoughts. You must have conjectured, Julian, from my manner, that she is not happy; and I could not bear, even though I might not express it to her in person once in years, that she should be separated by the broad ocean from those who by nature owe her comfort and sympathy. Oh, no!-by preserving to me so uninterruptedly my vigour, and a real enjoyment in my labours, Providence seems to point out to me the path I should pursue."

"Then you will allow me to remain with you, Rose? In my youthful fancies of coming to win your sister, I often dwelt upon the idea of creating a home worthy of her in the New World. My fortune, as you know, is not large, yet in this country it might soon be increased to a sufficiency for any moderate desires. The professions from which I have been expected to choose my future career-the army-and the sea are both uncongenial to my taste. I wish to live a quiet, domestic life; to erect my family altar in some pleasant spot, and never to depart from its hallowed influence. Will you help me to build it, here in this country of your choice? Let me relieve you of your toils. serve your father is scarcely less your own; let him rest on me. mine, Rose?"

My will to strong than Will you be

"Not for that consideration, Julian."

No, dear Rose, I do not mean for that, but for the certainty I know you already feel of the deep affection I bear you. All that my imagi nation painted of Maud, the results I expected from your father's wise instructions, from your mother's lofty and beautiful example, I find realized in you. In consideration of my love, I ask you to listen to me."

"In my knowledge of your worth, I do, Julian," she answered, raising her eyes in modest confidence to his face; "in the feeling that I can yield to your care my precious burthen, and devote my life equally between you."

Ormesby became the purchaser of an extensive and profitable manufactory in a beautiful section of the country, and thither immediately on his marriage conveyed his bride and her

father. Maud had been earnestly solicited by the happy Rose to meet her there; and Mr. Albany having, through some business transaction, discovered that his new connection was undoubtedly a man of consequence, thought it prudent to allow her to comply. Wrecked in health, without protection, and half brokenhearted, she came in a public conveyance, and was received in tearful silence by her father and sister.

"Let me stay with you, Rose," she sobbed, convulsively. "I have come to beg a shelter from the miseries I have endured. Do with me what I deserve; let me obey you as a child incapable of governing itself, but do not send me from you. Plead with me, father, that I may stay!"

To her father she described all her trials and confessed all her errors, and many a long hour she spent in his closet, listening to his admonitions and joining in his prayers. The few days to which she was restricted for her visit expired, and she prepared to return to her cheerless home.

"I am going, dear Rose," said she to her sister before they parted, "to commence, with God's blessing, the course which would have saved me from all my sorrow had I followed it sooner."

Years have passed since then; and though Maud has but attained those of mature womanhood, her once bright locks are blanched, and her graceful form bent as with age. Her bonds have neither been loosed nor lightened. A life of jealous exaction has too much hardened her husband to enable him to appreciate her sacrifices, yet she still offers them with the uncomplaining humility of a changed heart; and regarding the self-inflicted evils of her present life as lessons to prepare her for one to come, she awaits patiently and prayerfully the time when her probation shall be ended.

THE HOMEWARD BOUND.

BY MISS M. H. ACTON.

The homeward bound! what anxious hope Within each bosom sleeps,

sight

While the gallant ship 'mid storm and sun,
Her way still proudly keeps.
O, for the first, long-pray'd-for
Of the chalky cliffs, that tell
To the wand'rer's heart with wild delight,
Where the absent lov'd ones dwell.

'Neath an awning on the stately deck
A pallid girl doth lie,
Gazing upon the crested waves

That bear her home to die;

And ever and anon she turns

Her glance across the main,

For a vestige of the home she yearns
To look upon again.

Home at that thought the faint rose steals
Once more across her cheek;
And the light within her eyes shows forth
More joy than words could speak :

Sweet tones, from kindred voices, seem
To whisper in her ear,
Telling, as in a happy dream,

The bliss that draweth near.

"Speed thee, good ship! oh, speed thee on," Is still her changeless cry,

While swift beneath the vessel's track
The glancing waters fly.
Onward, still onward, night and day,
Till, like a distant star,
The home so pin'd for when away

Gleams faintly from afar.

Then fail'd the strength that bore her up
When now the goal seem'd won-
Faded the colour from her cheek

As clouds before the sun.
The eye doth lose its sunny gleam,

While closer smiles that shore
Whose shadow she was wont to deem

Would bring her health once more.

Henry IV., part 1.

There is a man sharp in his features, sharp in his looks, sharp in his movements, sharp in his conversation, and particularly sharp in his dealings. On that person John Bull, in his exuberant love of nicknames, has been pleased to confer the title of "Wide-awake!" A more expressive one could scarcely be found; for depend upon it he is never to be caught napping when an opportunity offers of advancing his ideal temporal interests.

The Man who is Wide-awake steps forth into this chequered scene of vice and virtue, beauty and deformity, designated the world, with the maxim in his mouth-"Take care of number one." That this is the first and paramount duty of human beings, and that all other duties should be made subservient to it, mere secondary considerations, is his doctrine, and thoroughly does he carry it into practice. Selfish to a degree, he is essentially a money getter, though not perhaps to such an extent as would earn for him the name of an avaricious miser, since he can be lavish enough of his cash, when, as he remarks, "the thing will turn out a good spec." To fill his own pocket at the expense of that of everybody else, to look always to the main chance, is his creed-one that naturally admits great latitude of conscience of which the wideawake man is not slow to avail himself.

"To turn a penny in the way of trade," by any means short of sheer robbery, is with him allowable, lawful, and honest, and not in the least derogatory to reputation. What the rest of mankind call cheating and trickery, he styles skilful dealing and dexterity. But the characteristic on which he most plumes himself is the faculty of discerning the crafty designs of others upon himself, or, as he terms it, being up to trap." This would be an unobjectionable quality were it only employed against the dishonest, but it is not so, and the result is, that the really upright suffer indiscriminately with the evilly-disposed; for whether imposition is attempted on him or not, he presumes it to be so, and acts accordingly. Notwithstanding all his caution and circumspection, he is often outdone in roguery, becoming the dupe where he imagines himself the duper, and one indeed would feel inclined to pardon the man

Really, Sir," replies the seller, "it would be taking away all my profit; you're very hard." "Usual tale, usual tale! but don't tell me," says Mr. Wide-awake. "Here are ten shillings, and let me have the article." The shopman, with much hesitation, and muttering something about the difficulty of getting a livelihood, complies, when the purchaser departs, congratulating himself on his victory, for such he deems it.

Now, there's my friend B-," he mentally ejaculates, "he would have given the man at once all he asked; addle-pated fellow! Why does he not take a leaf out of my book? positively the poor wight of a shopkeeper could not have made a penny by the bargain;" and so he chuckles away in the best possible humour with himself. Doubtless his note would be changed, did he know, as we do, that the shopkeeper, being well aware of the person he had to deal with, took care to set such a price on his goods as would enable him to abate largely, and still reap a fair profit.

The Man who is Wide-awake is not one who places reliance on what is communicated to him, or what he hears expressed in conversation; people who are accustomed so to do are, in his eyes, green-horns, simpletons. And why is this? Because he considers others talk as he does; to deceive, and not to inform. Every tale of woe, from the lips of a starving almsseeker, he considers nothing more than an in

vention to impose on the charitable; his are sweeping accusations. If one tradesman is dishonest, if one beggar is an imposter, all with him are alike. Oh! he is an amazingly sharp fellow, the wide-awake man; so sharp, indeed, that we candidly confess we would rather be as simple, as unacquainted with the subtleties of the world, as the rustic ploughboy, than be like him, a double-faced man, unstable in all his ways, leading a life of hypocrisy and deceit.

He is always full of business, meet him where you will. Catch him at his counting-house, you find him surrounded with papers and books, no time to say a word, unless you come on business, and then he will willingly give ear to your outpourings, particularly so when he has a prospect of "making something out of you❞— to use one of his own expressions; cross him in the street, the chances are he is racing along in a violent hurry, hailing you with a How d'ye do? sorry I can't stop, must be at by two o'clock." Every where alike! really he seems as though he had not a thought to bestow on aught but self, self, self!

It is strange that, notwithstanding all his boasted foresightedness, the Man who is Wideawake sometimes submits himself wholly to the guidance of one of his own stamp, together to pursue their schemings, prompted, as we suppose, by the old rule, that there is honour among rogues. Things go on prosperously with the pair until the united interests clash, in which case the one diamond cuts the other to a certainty, and thus the wide-awake man suffers by that very conduct of his own which he derides in his fellows, viz., over-confidence in another. He is a speculator well-known on 'Change, in share-markets, and betting-rings; but speculation of the latter kind, which fairdealing folks make a sport of, he turns into a completely knavish transaction, with the sole design of cheating the unhappy person concerned with him. Thus we find the Man who is Wide-awake, who would perhaps shudder at the commission of those flagrant evil deeds which would subject him to a criminal prosecution, committing, without compunction, those more refined rascalities, under a guise that society at large is pleased to consider not only a mask, but an effacer of the wrongful acts.

He generally dies wealthy, o'er-laden with ill-gotten riches. His golden hoard thereupon falls into the hands of a pack of relations, who, having looked upon it long before as a species of vested expectancy, receive it thanklessly, and pay no more respect to the memory of the departed than a customary suit of solemn black, which is doffed the very earliest opportunity, consistent with decency.

Oh! ye who are thus walking after "the things that do not profit," remember that a good name is a nobler legacy than any other it is in your power to bequeath. It is this which can alone entitle you to true respect when ye have shuffled off this mortal coil-it is this which can replenish the lamp of revering memory when all other sustenance fails.

MEMORIES OF MY CHILDHOOD.

BY GRACE AGUILAR.

I stood within the close, dull square,
Where infancy had pass'd;
And naught of poesie was there,

Rich gems of thought to cast. Yet did the thronging visions come

Of Childhood's smiles and tearsOf all that to mine earliest home Sweet Memory endears.

Yet, not remembrances of glee
That olden house might claim-
Not the light laugh of revelry
Unto my spirit came;

For I had never been a child
To laugh, or weep, or play;
No ringing joyance, free and wild,
Had marked my infant day.

I know not wherefore I was bless'd
With all that life could give-

A mother's love, sweet thoughts impress'd,
That taught me how to live;
And my fond sire would fold me oft
Unto his loving heart,
And, in a voice so mildly soft,

Tales of sweet lore impart.

And many lov'd me; yet I clung
Unto my parent's breast,
As the first frown upon me flung
Would break my trembling rest,
As if I never dared give vent

To all within enshrin'd;
And like a reed my spirit bent,

Were but a look unkind.

They call'd me senseless, with a soul
That knew nor joy nor woe-
That never o'er my childhood stole
Its own sweet rosy glow.
They knew not that my fancy shrin'd
Strange thoughts, that would be lone,
Affections, feelings undefin'd,

Lost ere they found a tone.

But yet I was a quiet child,

A dull and loveless thing;
Still had that home its accent mild

Fond memories to bring.
Strange, its strong power to fill my heart

With quickly thronging tears, When lovelier dreams did youth impart Than those of earlier years!

They stood before me, one by one,

The inmates of that home; The aged, whose thin thread was spun Ere went we forth to roam : Vivid as life I saw that face,

That bow'd and drooping form, On her pale brow and cheek to trace The tale of many a storm.

Again it rose-that awful day,

When Death-no more a nameFlung its dark shade o'er childish play, And all embodied came.

My father's deep and silent woe,

My mother's sorrowing mien,

Tears whence I thought they could not flow, All as it then had been.

And she, amidst those mourners, who

Was next to pass away,

I saw Consumption's fever'd hue

On her mild features play.

Wife, mother, sister, friend, her heart
The loves of all could blend,
As her meek virtues did impart
Love, lingering to the end.

:

She past who followed? A fair boy,
Awhile to mourn her spared,

Who, hand in hand, with me each joy
Of our first years had shared.
I had no brother then, and he,
My playmate and my friend,
Oft cheer'd me with the sunny glee
He could with feeling blend.

Childhood was past; Youth's dawn uprose,
Cloth'd in its gladd'ning light,
When round the bud the petals close,
Touch'd with untimely blight.

He pass'd; young Manhood found him not.
We had so grown together,
'Twas sad and strange to feel our lot
Thus parted, and for ever!

Yes, they are gone, and those in life
Are scatter'd o'er the earth,
Mingling in scenes of peace or strife,
Far from that household hearth:
Yet did that dusky mansion stand,

Heedless who might forsake;

No flow'rs sprung up 'neath Time's fond hand, A ruin'd shrine to make.

But, like the calyx of the rose,

Its unchang'd halls remain'd, Surviving long the wreck of those

Fair leaves it once retain'd. And they are scatter'd on the blast, Some blighted in their fall, And others far from that home cast Which erst enshrin'd them all.

"A FAREWELL TO FRIENDS."

BY T. H. W.

Thoughts sad, yet sadly-pleasing round my mind
A strange contending stream of feelings pour :
Thoughts of the friends endear'd I leave behind
Mingle with hopes of happier days in store.
Mem'ry, with tyrant's will, though unforbade,
Yet uninvok'd, her ample page displays;
And there, each feature truthfully pourtray'd,
A well-lov'd group attracts my mental gaze.
Mem'ry! I cannot chide thee, if I would;
For many a day, on which thou mak'st me dwell,
Spent with those friends in social gladsome mood,
Softens the pain of bidding them farewell.

'Tis twilight's dim, yet still and peaceful hour,
Fit time to breathe my long and last adieux;
When gently fades away day's less'ning pow'r,
And night her darksome reign once more renews.

Parents and sisters, brothers too, farewell!

Oh, oft shall I, when borne toward yonder shore, With fond affection on your mem'ry dwell,

And oft for you Heaven's choicest gifts implore. July, 1845.

SONNETS.

PATIENCE AND HOPE.

BY CHARLES H. HITCHINGS.

Cease we to mourn; we shall not always be
Heart-weary pilgrims through this vale of tears;
Wait we in patience for a few brief years,
Bearing our heavy burdens hopefully :

Perchance e'en now, if we could only "look
Into the seeds of time," we might behold
A fairer landscape to our eyes unfold;

Haply not distant paths which we forsook
When first the false world wooed us with her smile-
Paths careless, beautiful, and full of flowers:
We know not whether in a little while

We may not call earth's brightest pleasures ours. Cease we to mourn, e'en in life's waste of pain Our feet may find their happy paths again.

Oft have I seen, after a stormy day,

Cloudy and dark, and full of gusts and showers, Such as we well might deem had crush'd the flow'rs, And swept their every beauty all away,

A fair eve follow, clad in sweetest guise,
And smiling on the earth her gentlest smile,
Call forth fresh bloom to our desponding eyes,
So faithless; and the flowers, that erewhile

Lay cold and shatter'd, at her kiss re-live,
Yea, bloom the fresher for the bygone rain.
So may our hearts ere long revive again;

And e'en our very sorrows seem to give A strength, a beauty never known before, But now our happy dower for evermore.

THE BURIAL AT SEA.

BY CALDER CAMPBELL.

The shadows of night had covered the deep,
And the sea-birds reposed in their first sweet sleep,
And dimly the stars their lustre gave,
Like the topaz gems from a darksome cave.

They carried the corse of the soldier lad,

In the raiment of death all rudely clad;

No shroud to hide his ghastly face,
-Or veil from the eye Death's finger-trace.

No coffin contained his ashes cold,

For his hammock was destined his corpse to hold;
And they bore him in silence-but not one tear
Was shed, to hallow the soldier's bier.

The service was read-and a loud, dull crash,
And a hollow sound 'mid the billows' dash,
Bade welcome wild from the yawning wave,
As his body sank to its dark, deep grave!
That plunge, in the silence which reigned around,
As his form was gulfed in the depth profound-
Say, did it not waken a thrill, and a start,
That spoke the fear-chill at your heart?
"And were there no sighs, no tears for him?"
No voice wailed woe, and no eyes were dim:
Yet far, far at home, perchance, there were
Hearts would have broken had they been there.