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hard I cannot please my own taste, when it is to precipitancy of selfishness, told Anne his passion be bought out of my own money, that I've and his intentions. been working so hard to save, this long time.” Anne, who was a simple-minded, modest girl,

Such an argument was unanswerable. John was perfectly overpowered by the generosity of submitted to the thriftless blue moreen; but the this offer; and, dazzled by his fine person and prudence of his bride's choice remains yet to be honeyed words, thought she could never love proved. At any rate, he purchased, by his con- him sufficiently. His vanity was fully gratified cession, cloudless smiles for the whole of that by her unbounded and artless adoration, but he happy summer day.

was prudent enough to enjoin her to keep his But we have left poor Anne Hatton waiting projects secret for the present; until Anne had timidly for her turn. Poor girl, she is pale and displayed so much genius in her art as to give melancholy; and the coarse dress she wears is colour of propriety to his proposition for her adcovered with rusty crape. So young, too, and vancement in dignity. Anne was well pleased yet she has seen sorrow. You know at once, by to let matters continuie in their agreeable state, her neatness of person, her sallowness of com- and all went on smoothly till the end of Febplexion, and small parcel of work, that she is a ruary: then Anne heard that her poor old young dressmaker-a very skilful one her mis- mother was seriously ill, and desired the pretress would tell you, and the best fitter in her sence of her only child. Anne asked leave of establishment. But she is past work now, and absence from Madame Sarbaine; it was propast all feeling of pride in her skill. Six months mised for the ensuing week, provided no obstacle ago she came up to London, full of health and rose to prevent her being spared. 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 ac

Adolphe Sarbaine was indolent, easy-tem-counts from her mother grew worse and worse. pered, and selfish like his mamma; but he was Often, when she came home at night, she exceedingly good-looking, dressed well, and un- thought of running away by stealth ; but she derstood the art of flattery. His part in the was a timid girl, and the long journey, the establishment was to answer the street-door; for crowds at the railway, and the difficulty of esit behoved so great a dressmaker as Madame caping from Madame Sarbaine's establishment, Sarbaine to have a male attendant on her cus- made her put off the deed until it was too tomers, and she was too stingy to go to the ex- late. The day before the drawing-room she pense of keeping a footman. Adolphe did not had been at the house of a young countess, aldislike his post : he had the advantage of seeing tering the trimmings of her satin train, which all the lovely aristocrats who swept up to his the lady had ordered should be done under her mamma's door in their lordly chariots; and he own eye. The Countess had been very cross, and was quite happy in the succession of imaginary found fault with all her exertions : not a flower love-affairs which he cultivated for the sake of or a ribbon was where she wanted it, and the these haughty beauties, not one of whom would whole day was spent in trying to satisfy her cahave condescended to accept his services as foot- prices. At last the difficulties were all overman!

come by the patient fingers of the young artiste : When Anne Hatton, however, came from the drapery fell most gracefully. The Countess the fresh meadows of Evesham, with all the fra- tried it on, and eyed herself, full of complagrance and brightness of the country about her cency, in the cheval glass. Even the fastidious fair young face, Monsieur Adolphe made the soubrette declared, “ Que, mademoiselle, avait discovery that beauty and elegance belonged to un gout vraiment Parisien ;” and Anne, weary no peculiar set of the haut-ton. There was a and dispirited, plodded her way home. Adolphe sense of fitness and propriety about Anne that did not open the door as usual ; one of the girls made everything she did exactly what it ought did, and said, with a rather significant gesture, to have been : her liveliness was tempered by that Madame wished to speak with her in the that same tact, and full of gaiety and gladness parlour. as she was, her every movement and gesture was "Any letters for me, Miss Niblett?" gasped that of an aristocrat of nature. Adolphe first poor Anne. wondered at her—for she was a solecism in his “Yes-no-it was not for you--for Madame; creed of fashion-then he admired her, then he she'll tell you.”

He began to arrange mentally a A foreboding chill struck Anne's heart ; she charming project, that his mother should pro- grew pale as death, and rather staggered than mote the skilful apprentice to be forewoman, and walked into the parlour, and the presence of afterwards receive her into partnership as his Madame Sarbaine. That lady sat very etiffly in wife. Having been a spoiled child, he made no her chair, very gravely eyeing the poor girl : her doubt of his parent's consent, and, with all the expression was of mingled pity and indignation, She was sorry for Anne's bereavement, but she | Adolphe to the play. Then, all was brightness ; had discovered her son's attachment, and was now, the very faces of the fat-cheeked boys, who furiously enraged at the presumptuous appren- copy all the entries into the ledgers, seem al. tice. She began in a curiously undecided tone : tered to her; the clerks look grim; the at“I am sorry to tell you, Miss Hatton, that your mosphere is hot and sickening. She draws mother is dead, poor woman! There is the down her black veil, and with unsteady step letter ; you can read the particulars. And now, bad hurries out to the sunny, noisy street. To it been at any other time, I should have been morrow she will be among the quiet fields: can seriously displeased ; I don't know how I should they restore to her her young gladness, so soon have punished you-an impertinent upstart to departed ? Can she live upon the memory of past make love to my son! I daresay you thought happiness? As she sits, vainly striving to earn you had it all your own way, Miss! Prettily a scanty livelihood, by making Sunday gowns you forgot your station and mine! But I don't for the farmer's wives and daughters, will not mean to scold you now; you have trouble of your the gawdy splendours of London come back on own; though I must say it looks very like a her? The luxurious residences of the nobility judgment on your audacity! Now go away, | --the fair, languid features of those stately damand let me hear no more of it. You must see sels, whose forms she has so often robed the that no young person who is so destitute of pro- glitter of the streets, the thunder of the equipriety, so forward and presuming as you have pages, the Sunday lounges with Adolphe in the been, can be fit to remain in my establishment. park—will not these uneasy memories fling a You can depart on Saturday, when all the feverish excitement into the monotony of her dresses are finished and sent home. I don't existence, and poison her dearly-purchased tranwish to be severe; I see you are in trouble.” quillity?

loved her.

She might have expatiated for ever; Anne But we have forgotten our own business, heard nothing but that her mother was dead : and the clerk is calling on us most impatiently. the bursting of her love's day-dream was un- “ Really, sir, we can't wait longer : office shuts heeded at the moment. She moved mechanic at two : it only wants eight minutes !" cally from the room, and went to the work- And their dinners—the pork pies, the mutton room; the girls started forwards at her entrance. chops—we are keeping the poor hungry crea* Oh, Miss Hatton !" cried one, “show me how tures from the greatest pleasure of their humto put on this ruche.”

drum lives. We present ourselves at the desk, "Oh, Miss Hatton!” cried another, “should sign the receipt, pocket the cash, and shuffle these flower-stalks lie upward or downward ?" out along the dark passage. In our rear we hear

But, good gracious!” exclaimed two or a confused slamming down of desk-lids, flutterthree together, “how ill she looks! Is her ing of papers, pushing back of wooden stools

, mother really dead ?”.

and gabbling of many tongues ; and, in a few "Dead!” screamed Anne, at that word, and seconds, clerks, cashier, and ledger-copying boys she burst into hysterical laughing, that presently tumble pell-mell out of the office, and seizing put the whole room into confusion. Before sundry shapeless articles of head-gear, diva night Anne was in a delirious fever, and in her down the neighbouring streets in search of their wild ravings mingling the name of Adolphe with long-anticipated repast. her calls for her dead mother. For some days The savings' bank is shut for the day, and she lay in great danger, but her youth triumphed we are fain to take refuge in that confectioner's, for the time, and she recovered.

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 hothouse grapes would soon squander all the burst of passion, and a defiance of his mamma, savings we have seen this day withdrawn; but his disinterested affection died a natural death! oh, how charming a sniff of that bouquet, after His fickleness was caught by the beauty of the the sultry steaming we have undergone in our season, a high-born fiancée, who came very fre- Peep into the Office of a Savings Bank ! quently 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

COMA BERENICES. 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.

Venus, goddess, queen of beauty, So have all Anne's early hopes been cut off in

Hear my prayer of love and duty the bud: she is returning to the home of child

See me kneeling at thine altar, hood with a sad heart, and there is none to wel

Hear, oh hear, the prayers I falter !

He whose arm hath been my rest, come her as of old. To-day she comes for her little

Who hath pillowed on my breastsavings, to defray the expenses of her journey to He whose being is to me Evesham. Her eyes fill as she looks round the Dearer far than life can be place. Last time she came here, it was to draw Evergetes, my loved lord, out a sovereign to buy a new gown, to go with Leaves these arms to wield the sword.

BY MRS. WHITE.

If amidst the carnage fatal
Of the dreaded coming battle
Thou wilt spread thy power o'er him
If to me thou dost restore him
Safe, victorious, laurel-crowned,
Then to thee this vow is bound :
See this cloud of sunny hair-
Thy last gift to woman fair-
Every tress is vow'd to thee
If my lord victorious be."
Slowly her fair arm unwound
The golden circlet that upbound

Her beauty's chiefest crown;
And o'er the marble of the shrine,
And round her, like a veil divine,

Her shining hair fell down-
And 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.

Silent but swift the bark moves on,
The shore is near'd, the haven won;
And Evergetes and his band
Triumphant tread their native strand.
How weak is language to impart
The feelings of the human heart-
Its depths of grief, its lifting joy,
When freed from grief and woe's annoy!
They both are voiceless--each extreme
Hath the same outlet, and we deem
Joy's purest sign a tear ;
Thus gladness takes affliction's form,
And thoughts of transport, gushing warm,

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.

*

And Berenice seems fairer now,
Though shorn the honours of her brow,

In Evergete's eyes,
Than when, in many playful hours
Of dalliance, he had woven flow'rs

With the bright hair that lies
Amidst the mingled treasures thrown
On the Idalian altar stone,

Its purest sacrifice. Jewels and gold are flashing there Less precious than that silken hair, To her who knew how deep a part Young beauty claims of woman's heart, And rarer seem'd that gift, and dearer Than all that riches scatter'd near her.

*

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Many a day hath come and gone,
Many a night hath wearied on,
Yet daily at that altar kneeling
Berenice is still appealing-
Thou knowest (for thy heart hath known
Every pang that rends my own
All its sorrow, all its burning,
Save despair for his returning)
Evergetes is to me
All that Mars bath been to thee.
Oh! if thy bright eyes hath broken
Into tears when Jove hath spoken
If thy brow, bright queen of gladness,
Hath indeed been dimm'd with sadness,
Think how deep must be the woe
That our mortal bosoms know."

*
'Tis midnight, and the waves are still,

Or on the shore all gently die
In murmurs, such as those that fill

A sea-shell when a breath sweeps by,

And whispers through it mournfully ;
And o'er them tremulously bright
Are playing those long rays of light
That, though they seem to rest upon

One little spot of rippling water,
Touch every wave that passes on,

Till all successively have caught her ;
And let the bark move where it will,
The moonlight falls around her still.
But now, yet brighter sparkles rise,
Like falling showers of Indian flies
Gemming the sleeping sea,
And kindling, for an instant threw
A gleam upon the waters blue
Fading as instantly.
'Tis ! 'tis the phosphoric track of oars
Impell’d by bold and lusty rowers.
There's one who wears away the night

In a watch of prayer and love,
And her eyes behold the playful light

That skimm'th the waves above,
And the shadowy bark on the distant water,
The ark of men returned from slaughter-

Say, Hope, is her warrior there? Or does he rest in that dreamy grove Where Orpheus tells his fatal love

To the ears of another sphere?

Oh! Berenice, what unto thee

Was beauty without love ?
A leaf torn from its parent tree,

A lost and mateless dove !
Thy deed was one whose earthly dower
Prov'd fadeless as the amaranth flower;
For the fair locks (so poets sing)
Were wafted by some genii's wing,
All gemm'd with many a votary's tear,
To sparkle in the heavenly sphere;
And every tress so long and bright
Hath caught a new and glorious light,
And like a sheaf of glittering spars
Now shineth from its place of stars
A glory and a sign.
What is the tale thus nightly told ?
A story of the heart as old

As woman's love may be,
And one that hath on history's page
A parallel in every age

Of greater sanctity ;
Though wanting characters so bright,
Nor placed in such exalted light

As thine, fair devotee.

[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 bad carried them away, and made them a constellation.]

MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS.

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!

BY GEORGINA C. MUNRO.

THE BROKEN-HEARTED.

The wings of midnight shadow o'er the earth,

Which silent lies before her presence bow'd; The voice of music, and the laugh of mirth,

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 night

No 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

Thou sayest there's a sadness

Upon her lovely brow; As if the sudden gladness

Of youth had left it now. Ah! little dost thou know All the deep and deadly wo That hath touched its living snow

With that shade.

wear

An air of sweetness in their deep repose !
How blest their brief forgetfulness to those
To whom the tissue of this waking life
Seems but a vision of wild fears and strife!
Why must night's brightness disappear, and they
Be left to tremble at the gloom of day?

Joyous as though he never woke a fear,
Brilliant as though no cloud could harbour near,
The morrow's sun will smile upon the earth,
And call the peasant to the toil which birth
Has made his own; and thousands, he would deem
Well worth his envy, wakened by that beam,
Will sigh, and sadly, shudderingly pursue
The path through life spread darkly to their view.
How many an eye that sunlight shall unclose

From visions but too beautiful for truth !
How many a heart recall unto its woes

From dreams where all the happiness of youth,
With brighter hues, was once again its own!
The false one's whisper, or the lost one's tone,

With vanish'd music filled the sleeping ear,
Which listened, as in hours for ever gone,

Ere joy was darkened by the clouds of fear,
Without a dread that change or death was nigh-
That aught so loved could or deceive or die !
Or the chafed spirit, which once proudly burn'd

With all ambition's torch could kindle there,
But which hath seen those bright hopes quench'd,

and tirn'a
To thougl ts whose chill is colder than despair-
E'en that si d spirit, crushed, but haughty yet,
Hath learn'd in sleep its anguish to forget,
And fancy spreads before his eyes a scene
In which be seems all he would fain have been
His voice sath won the senate's loud applause,
His sword hath triumphed in a spotless cause-

Glory łath twined her chaplet round his brow,
And Bear .ty smiles upon the wreath of
Such are the visions which surround him now,
But morn will come in mockery to break
The spell, and bid the slumbering heart awake

To feel with tenfold bitterness its doom-
The world's oblivion, or a blighted name

The all that death can be without the tomb !

Thou sayest there's a paleness

Upon her lovely cheek,
Which might a wailing spirit

Or a broken heart bespeak.
Ah! truly hast thou spoken,
For of a heart long broken
It is the silent token,

That pale cheek.
Thou sayest that the calmness

Of fixed despair there lies
Within the fading azure

Of those celestial eyes.
Ah! well it may be so-
For never canst thou know
From those eyes what tears of wo

Have been wrung.
Thou sayest there's a sadness

In her low voice's tone,
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

Each light tone.

Thou say'st with sighs unbidden

Oft doth her bosom swell, As from a grief that's hidden

Too deep for words to tell. Ah! can we memory crush, Or the recollections hush That at its call will rush

O'er the soul ?

me :

Thou sayest when the joyous

Are gathered laughing round, That she shrinks, as if she dreaded

To hear that laughter's sound. Ah ! do not blame the heart That in mirth can bear no part; It is pierced by Sorrow's dart

To the core.

So fade those vision'd scenes of hope and light,

Which brightness round the spirit's childhood cast When all seem'd beautiful ; till from our sight

The fairy fabric of illusion pass'd,
And we awoke to find our hopes a dream-

The truth a shadow which for ever frown'd
On the vexed surface of life's troubled stream,

And we cast helpless on its waters, bound

She will never more be happy,

Till within the quiet grave
Is hushed each thought and feeling

That to life its darkness gave.
And she longeth for that day
When from its house of clay
Shall her spirit flee away
To its rest.

S. J. G.

FAITHFUL UNTO DE AT H.

(Translated from Emilie Flygare Carlen, Authoress of the Rose of Tiseltön.)

BY M. A. Y.

A young and lovely group sat on the terrace to you that I love you more than myself; nor in front of the romantic villa of the widow of can any circumstances effect an alteration in this the Professor M--: it consisted of two beau- feeling. My affection is boundless and untiful girls, the daughters of that lady, and changeable; it is thine for time and for etertheir accepted and affianced lovers, and a large nity !" brown dog, that gravely sat up on his hind feet, Rosa smiled an enchanting smile, half increwhile his fore-paws rested on the table, and his dulous, half melancholy; and Leopold Fhead leaned against the fair and lovely shoulder the affianced husband of Julie, exclaimed, almost of Rosa M—The rich glow of a setting sun rudely, “ It makes me quite sick to hear such shed its rays over them, and lighted up the nonsense. It is unwise to swear to anything; for scene with its warm effulgence.

who can answer for his own heart? I am sure The Mademoiselles M- had long been I love my Julie as dearly as-as a man ought to considered the belles of their neighbourhood, love his intended wife, and yet I can conceive of and were celebrated far and near, not merely as circumstances which might effect an alteration handsome, accomplished, well-dressed girls, but in my feelings. For instance, if I were to seeas amiable, generous, and good. They sought which I trust in God I never shall—that Julie not celebrity: modesty floated round them, heigh- took too much pleasure in the society of another tening every charm which it veiled, as the moss man; or increases the beauty of the rose. Julie, the Here he paused; for Julie's frank, affectionate

eldest sister, was chiefly famed for her talents ; eyes were raised reproachfully to his, and she I while to Rosa fell the palm of beauty; and both whispered, “ Hush, hush! I will not have you

were worshipped by the common herd, for they give voice to such ideas.” were heiresses.

“ I was not serious, dearest,” he said, kissing As for the two gentlemen, they had three her hand; “ I only wished to show Wilhelm qualities in common, viz., handsome person, what folly it was to utter such rhodomontade elegant and pleasing manners, and a good in- stuff.” come; but here the resemblance ceased. Their “ Well, and all you have showed me is, that characters were by no means similar, as we shall you will turn out a jealous husband. For my presently see.

own part now, I shall be pleased to see my Rosa Everybody said—and when everybody says a admired, and proud of possessing a wife whom thing, of course it must be true—that it would others look on with admiration, and envy me have been impossible to find two couples so well my good fortune.” matched. The young people themselves were “ It is very evident that our opinions are convinced that such was the fact, for love had diametrically opposite,” observed Leopold. "I drawn them together; and it was not often that hope I shall never turn out a jealous husband; four happier hearts throbbed in unison than did but I certainly must say that I shall wish to every Saturday, when the wooers escaped from keep my wife to myself, and shall feel perfectly their engagements, and came down to Hillinge content if the world suffers her to pass unto spend their time until Monday should again noticed and unadmired.” summon them back to business.

Although perfectly free from all coquetry, On the evening on which our story com- Julie thought that this was carrying the thing mences it wanted just two months of the ap- rather too far, but she forbore to make any repointed wedding-day, and they sat talking evi- mark, for fear of touching a string that might dently on some most interesting topic; for eyes produce only discord, and revibrate hereafter glistened and cheeks glowed, and even the dog unpleasantly. Besides, she was too wise to wish looked gravely from one to the other, as if her lover to seem aught that the husband would weighing the matter in his mind.

not be, or to arrogate to herself a short-lived Yes, yes! we know that all men say so tyranny which would hereafter make obedience without reflecting on the import of their words,” a painful duty. said the lively Rosa, as, suffering the stocking The subject was dropped, and silence fell on which she had been industriously knitting to them all. Wilhelm amused himself by watching sink into her lap, she struck her lover Wilhelm some hay-makers in an adjoining field, Leopold lightly and playfully on the shoulder with the by sketching the dog on the table with a pencil disengaged needle.

formed by dipping his finger in wine; the “Not all, my angel,” replied Wilhelm, taking maidens knitted on most industriously. Before her little hand in his, Not all; for I swear either of the little party had started any fresh

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