hard I cannot please my own taste, when it is to be bought out of my own money, that I've been working so hard to save, this long time." Such an argument was unanswerable. John submitted to the thriftless blue moreen; but the prudence of his bride's choice remains yet to be proved. At any rate, he purchased, by his concession, cloudless smiles for the whole of that happy summer day. precipitancy of selfishness, told Anne his passion and his intentions. Anne, who was a simple-minded, modest girl, was perfectly overpowered by the generosity of this offer; and, dazzled by his fine person and honeyed words, thought she could never love him sufficiently. His vanity was fully gratified by her unbounded and artless adoration, but he was prudent enough to enjoin her to keep his projects secret for the present; until Anne had displayed so much genius in her art as to give colour of propriety to his proposition for her advancement in dignity. Anne was well pleased to let matters continue in their agreeable state, and all went on smoothly till the end of February: then Anne heard that her poor old mother was seriously ill, and desired the presence of her only child. Anne asked leave of absence from Madame Sarbaine; it was promised for the ensuing week, provided no obstacle rose to prevent her being spared. But we have left poor Anne Hatton waiting timidly for her turn. Poor girl, she is pale and melancholy; and the coarse dress she wears is covered with rusty crape. So young, too, and yet she has seen sorrow. You know at once, by her neatness of person, her sallowness of complexion, and small parcel of work, that she is a young dressmaker-a very skilful one her mistress would tell you, and the best fitter in her establishment. But she is past work now, and past all feeling of pride in her skill. Six months ago she came up to London, full of health and hopes, conscious of her own aptitude for her Alas! the first drawing-room was fixed unusutrade, sure of making a fortune, and that right ally early in the season, and the dressmakers speedily. Then she loved finery and pleasure, were overwhelmed with sudden and peremptory quite as much as Harriet Lucas does now: she orders. Anne must go from house to house, was giddy and untried. Her principal, Madame trying and fitting on rich robes for the lovely Sarbaine, was a good-natured, selfish, pros- debutantes no respite for her. The weather perous person, with a high reputation in the was very cold, with a bitter east wind: Anne fashionable circles, a large connection in busi- caught a cold, which progressed into a cough : ness, an increasing fortune, and an only son. her mind was in a most unhappy state: the acAdolphe Sarbaine was indolent, easy-tem-counts from her mother grew worse and worse. pered, and selfish like his mamma; but he was exceedingly good-looking, dressed well, and understood the art of flattery. His part in the establishment was to answer the street-door; for it behoved so great a dressmaker as Madame Sarbaine to have a male attendant on her customers, and she was too stingy to go to the expense of keeping a footman. Adolphe did not dislike his post: he had the advantage of seeing all the lovely aristocrats who swept up to his mamma's door in their lordly chariots; and he was quite happy in the succession of imaginary love-affairs which he cultivated for the sake of these haughty beauties, not one of whom would have condescended to accept his services as foot man! When Anne Hatton, however, came from the fresh meadows of Evesham, with all the fragrance and brightness of the country about her fair young face, Monsieur Adolphe made the discovery that beauty and elegance belonged to no peculiar set of the haut-ton. There was a sense of fitness and propriety about Anne that made everything she did exactly what it ought to have been: her liveliness was tempered by that same tact, and fuli of gaiety and gladness as she was, her every movement and gesture was that of an aristocrat of nature. Adolphe first wondered at her-for she was a solecism in his creed of fashion-then he admired her, then he❘ loved her. He began to arrange mentally a charming project, that his mother should promote the skilful apprentice to be forewoman, and afterwards receive her into partnership as his wife. Having been a spoiled child, he made no doubt of his parent's consent, and, with all the Often, when she came home at night, she thought of running away by stealth; but she was a timid girl, and the long journey, the crowds at the railway, and the difficulty of escaping from Madame Sarbaine's establishment, made her put off the deed until it was too late. The day before the drawing-room she had been at the house of a young countess, altering the trimmings of her satin train, which the lady had ordered should be done under her own eye. The Countess had been very cross, and found fault with all her exertions: not a flower or a ribbon was where she wanted it, and the whole day was spent in trying to satisfy her caprices. At last the difficulties were all overcome by the patient fingers of the young artiste : the drapery fell most gracefully. The Countess tried it on, and eyed herself, full of complacency, in the cheval glass. Even the fastidious soubrette declared, "Que, mademoiselle, avait un gout vraiment Parisien ;" and Anne, weary and dispirited, plodded her way home. Adolphe did not open the door as usual; one of the girls did, and said, with a rather significant gesture, that Madame wished to speak with her in the parlour. 66 Any letters for me, Miss Niblett?" gasped poor Anne. "Yes-no-it was not for you--for Madame ; she'll tell you." A foreboding chill struck Anne's heart; she grew pale as death, and rather staggered than walked into the parlour, and the presence of Madame Sarbaine. That lady sat very stiffly in her chair, very gravely eyeing the poor girl: her expression was of mingled pity and indignation. She was sorry for Anne's bereavement, but she | had discovered her son's attachment, and was furiously enraged at the presumptuous apprentice. She began in a curiously undecided tone : "I am sorry to tell you, Miss Hatton, that your mother is dead, poor woman! There is the letter; you can read the particulars. And now, had it been at any other time, I should have been seriously displeased; I don't know how I should have punished you-an impertinent upstart to make love to my son! I daresay you thought you had it all your own way, Miss! Prettily you forgot your station and mine! But I don't mean to scold you now; you have trouble of your own; though I must say it looks very like a judgment on your audacity! Now go away, and let me hear no more of it. You must see that no young person who is so destitute of propriety, so forward and presuming as you have been, can be fit to remain in my establishment. You can depart on Saturday, when all the dresses are finished and sent home. I don't wish to be severe; I see you are in trouble." She might have expatiated for ever; Anne heard nothing but that her mother was dead: the bursting of her love's day-dream was unheeded at the moment. She moved mechanically from the room, and went to the workroom; the girls started forwards at her entrance. Oh, Miss Hatton!" cried one," show me how to put on this ruche." "Oh, Miss Hatton!" cried another, "should these flower-stalks lie upward or downward?" But, good gracious!" exclaimed two or three together, how ill she looks! Is her mother really dead?" "Dead!" screamed Anne, at that word, and she burst into hysterical laughing, that presently put the whole room into confusion. Before night Anne was in a delirious fever, and in her wild ravings mingling the name of Adolphe with her calls for her dead mother. For some days she lay in great danger, but her youth triumphed for the time, and she recovered. Adolphe to the play. Then, all was brightness; now, the very faces of the fat-cheeked boys, who copy all the entries into the ledgers, seem altered to her; the clerks look grim; the atmosphere is hot and sickening. She draws down her black veil, and with unsteady step hurries out to the sunny, noisy street. Tomorrow she will be among the quiet fields: can they restore to her her young gladness, so soon departed? Can she live upon the memory of past happiness? As she sits, vainly striving to earn a scanty livelihood, by making Sunday gowns for the farmer's wives and daughters, will not the gawdy splendours of London come back on her? The luxurious residences of the nobility -the fair, languid features of those stately damsels, whose forms she has so often robed-the glitter of the streets, the thunder of the equipages, the Sunday lounges with Adolphe in the park-will not these uneasy memories fling a feverish excitement into the monotony of her existence, and poison her dearly-purchased tranquillity? But we have forgotten our own business, and the clerk is calling on us most impatiently. Really, sir, we can't wait longer: office shuts at two: it only wants eight minutes!" And their dinners-the pork pies, the mutton chops-we are keeping the poor hungry creatures from the greatest pleasure of their humdrum lives. We present ourselves at the desk sign the receipt, pocket the cash, and shuffle out along the dark passage. In our rear we hear a confused slamming down of desk-lids, fluttering of papers, pushing back of wooden stools, and gabbling of many tongues; and, in a few seconds, clerks, cashier, and ledger-copying boys tumble pell-mell out of the office, and seizing sundry shapeless articles of head-gear, dive down the neighbouring streets in search of their long-anticipated repast. hothouse grapes would soon squander all the savings we have seen this day withdrawn; but oh, how charming a sniff of that bouquet, after the sultry steaming we have undergone in our Peep into the Office of a Savings' Bank! The savings' bank is shut for the day, and we are fain to take refuge in that confectioner's and bury ourselves and our experiences in a Alas for man's constancy! Adolphe had had brimming glass of raspberry ice-" Another, if a good rating from his mother for his folly, in you please." How delicious the fragrance of caring for a designing chit like that Anne Hat-those strawberries! Those early peaches and ton; and after he had relieved himself by a burst of passion, and a defiance of his mamma, his disinterested affection died a natural death! His fickleness was caught by the beauty of the season, a high-born fiancée, who came very frequently to arrange about her wedding paraphernalia. When Anne Hatton returned after her illness to get her trunk, her bloodless face and sunken eyes impressed him with horror instead of love. She had lost the beauty which had won his light vows, and the selfish man saw no charm in her patient and uncomplaining sorrow. So have all Anne's early hopes been cut off in the bud she is returning to the home of childhood with a sad heart, and there is none to welcome her as of old. To-day she comes for her little savings, to defray the expenses of her journey to Evesham. Her eyes fill as she looks round the place. Last time she came here, it was to draw out a sovereign to buy a new gown, to go with COMA BERENICES. BY MRS. WHITE. "Venus, goddess, queen of beauty, Leaves these arms to wield the sword. If amidst the carnage fatal Her beauty's chiefest crown; Her shining hair fell downAnd all around her, and above, Sweet incense to the queen of love Its odorous depths threw out; And Venus, who had scarcely known The lovely tresses from her own, Smiled on that wife devout. * Many a day hath come and gone, "Thou knowest (for thy heart hath known All that Mars hath been to thee. * 'Tis midnight, and the waves are still, A sea-shell when a breath sweeps by, Till all successively have caught her; And kindling, for an instant threw "Tis! 'tis the phosphoric track of oars There's one who wears away the night Say, Hope, is her warrior there? Or does he rest in that dreamy grove Silent but swift the bark moves on, Thus gladness takes affliction's form, Are bathed in sorrow's tide: So we strew roses on a bier, And wreath them on a bride. Enough, that loving hearts have met In that wild rapture to forget The weary hours by doubt made longer, The wish that grew with each day strongerThat thirst for kindred thought and look That sever'd bosoms scarcely brook. Oh! Berenice, what unto thee What is the tale thus nightly told? As woman's love may be, Of greater sanctity; [Berenice, the wife of Evergetes, upon his leaving her on a dangerous expedition, vowed to dedicate her hair to Venus if he came back in safety. Sometime after his victorious return the locks which were in the temple of Venus disappeared, and Conon, an astronomer, publicly reported that Jupiter had carried them away, and made them a constellation.] MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS. BY GEORGINA C. MUNRO. The wings of midnight shadow o'er the earth, Alike are hushed-grief mourns no more aloud : While slumber flits, like a good angel, by, And soothes the pain of many a troubled breast, Stills the wild throb of anguish, and the sigh Which breathes the sadness of a soul oppress'd. The winds have sunk beneath the steps of nightNo murmur rests upon the moveless airThe stars shine forth, but with a dreamy light, As though they slumbered in those regions where Thought may not wander. How these moments wear An air of sweetness in their deep repose! Why must night's brightness disappear, and they Joyous as though he never woke a fear, From dreams where all the happiness of youth, Ere joy was darkened by the clouds of fear, To though ts whose chill is colder than despair- In which he seems all he would fain have been- The all that death can be without the tomb ! So fade those vision'd scenes of hope and light, The truth a shadow which for ever frown'd By spells we cannot conquer, and by fears Which bid us shudder at the gulph of years Whither the stemless current sweeps us on, O'er rocks we shun not, for the power is gone! THE BROKEN-HEARTED. Thou sayest there's a sadness Of youth had left it now. Thou sayest there's a paleness Or a broken heart bespeak. Thou sayest that the calmness Of those celestial eyes. Thou sayest there's a sadness As if the merry music Of youth from thence had flown. Ah! once that voice was gay As the warbling lark's in May; But sorrows chased away FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. (Translated from Emilie Flygare Carlen, Authoress of the "Rose of Tiseltön.”) BY M. A. Y. A young and lovely group sat on the terrace in front of the romantic villa of the widow of the Professor M- it consisted of two beautiful girls, the daughters of that lady, and their accepted and affianced lovers, and a large brown dog, that gravely sat up on his hind feet, while his fore-paws rested on the table, and his head leaned against the fair and lovely shoulder of Rosa M. The rich glow of a setting sun shed its rays over them, and lighted up the scene with its warm effulgence. The Mademoiselles M- had long been considered the belles of their neighbourhood, and were celebrated far and near, not merely as handsome, accomplished, well-dressed girls, but as amiable, generous, and good. They sought not celebrity: modesty floated round them, heightening every charm which it veiled, as the moss increases the beauty of the rose. Julie, the eldest sister, was chiefly famed for her talents; while to Rosa fell the palm of beauty; and both were worshipped by the common herd, for they were heiresses. As for the two gentlemen, they had three qualities in common, viz., handsome person, elegant and pleasing manners, and a good income; but here the resemblance ceased. Their characters were by no means similar, as we shall presently see. Everybody said-and when everybody says a thing, of course it must be true-that it would have been impossible to find two couples so well matched. The young people themselves were convinced that such was the fact, for love had drawn them together; and it was not often that four happier hearts throbbed in unison than did every Saturday, when the wooers escaped from their engagements, and came down to Hillinge to spend their time until Monday should again summon them back to business. On the evening on which our story commences it wanted just two months of the appointed wedding-day, and they sat talking evidently on some most interesting topic; for eyes glistened and cheeks glowed, and even the dog looked gravely from one to the other, as if weighing the matter in his mind. 66 Yes, yes! we know that all men say so without reflecting on the import of their words," said the lively Rosa, as, suffering the stocking which she had been industriously knitting to sink into her lap, she struck her lover Wilhelm lightly and playfully on the shoulder with the disengaged needle. "Not all, my angel," replied Wilhelm, taking her little hand in his. Not all; for I swear to you that I love you more than myself; nor can any circumstances effect an alteration in this feeling. My affection is boundless and unchangeable; it is thine for time and for eternity!" Rosa smiled an enchanting smile, half incredulous, half melancholy; and Leopold Fthe affianced husband of Julie, exclaimed, almost rudely, "It makes me quite sick to hear such nonsense. It is unwise to swear to anything; for who can answer for his own heart? I am sure I love my Julie as dearly as-as a man ought to love his intended wife, and yet I can conceive of circumstances which might effect an alteration in my feelings. For instance, if I were to seewhich I trust in God I never shall—that Julie took too much pleasure in the society of another man; or —" Here he paused; for Julie's frank, affectionate eyes were raised reproachfully to his, and she whispered, "Hush, hush! I will not have you give voice to such ideas." "I was not serious, dearest," he said, kissing her hand; "I only wished to show Wilhelm what folly it was to utter such rhodomontade stuff." 66 Well, and all you have showed me is, that you will turn out a jealous husband. For my own part now, I shall be pleased to see my Rosa admired, and proud of possessing a wife whom others look on with admiration, and envy me my good fortune." "It is very evident that our opinions are diametrically opposite," observed Leopold. "I hope I shall never turn out a jealous husband; but I certainly must say that I shall wish to keep my wife to myself, and shall feel perfectly content if the world suffers her to pass unnoticed and unadmired." Although perfectly free from all coquetry, Julie thought that this was carrying the thing rather too far, but she forbore to make any remark, for fear of touching a string that might produce only discord, and revibrate hereafter unpleasantly. Besides, she was too wise to wish her lover to seem aught that the husband would not be, or to arrogate to herself a short-lived tyranny which would hereafter make obedience a painful duty. The subject was dropped, and silence fell on them all. Wilhelm amused himself by watching some hay-makers in an adjoining field, Leopold by sketching the dog on the table with a pencil formed by dipping his finger in wine; the maidens knitted on most industriously. Before either of the little party had started any fresh T |