It was on a delightful morning in the glorious month of June that I for the first time left my native home to seek my fortunes on the "world's wide estate ;" and as I was whisked past on the mail coach (alas! that we can speak of it only in the past tense) the cottage residences of my humble village friends and school-boy acquaintances, I felt that strange mixture of joy and sorrow which only those experiencing it can understand and as the old women, peeping from under the clusters of roses and woodbine which overhung the windows of their dwellings, looked on me as I thought at that momentwith pride, and sent forth blessings on the head of their "darlin' boy," I felt my bosom rising with pride; and yet could scarce refrain from bursting the portals of the fountain of grief, which hung, like a weight, upon my otherwise buoyant spirits.

I was the only son of a poor, but proud squire, who, having but little means and much haughty blood, kept me at home instead of sending me to school-himself acting as my tutor; the consequence naturally was that, under his tuition, I stood a fair chance of following in his footsteps a proud and poor man, striving to keep up a large appearance, and not knowing in which quarter to turn for the means; heir to an old family estate always wanting repairing, and two or three tenants upon it who never paid the rent. Such were my expectations in life at the age of sixteen. My father-on account of the expences entailing upon it-keeping no company, my only associates were the village gossips, including the blacksmith, or, in his own terms, the farrier," the parish clerk, and the tailor, besides innumerable old women; not, I must confess, merely for their own sakes, but for the sake of possessing, if possible, the good-will of their daughters; of whom, I think, our village of B could boast-in the estimation of my untutored fancy-of as handsome a group as that of any harem of the east. At the age of sixteen, my father thinking I ought to be earning a livelihood for myself, and imagining the sword to be the most aristocratic way of accomplishing that object, a commission was purchased for me in the regiment of foot, then stationed at the Chatham barracks, waiting to be embarked for service in the east. The reader must suppose me just starting per mail" for the former place, at the opening of this narrative.

I will now introduce the reader to two personages rather more elevated in their position in life than those whom I before included in my small circle of friends. The vicar of the parish

was one of those old, greyheaded, worthy pastors, dispensing goodness and charity in every case where he thought they were needed, that we could imagine a pastor of a village to be. The Rev. Hugh Wilmot was, in fact, the living semblance of that "brotherly love and Christian charity" which he endeavoured, each Sunday, to instil in the hearts of his humble congregation, from his old worm-eaten pulpit in the corner of the church. Below the pulpit was stationed, in all the glories of faded scarlet drapery, the "parsonage pew." Our pew, being the largest in the church, was situated next to theirs, thus enabling those in our pew to have a good view of the inmates of theirs. There was not much novelty, however, in this; its only occupier being a young and very pretty girl, just emerging from the buoyancy of youth into the stately sedateness of womanhood. Marian Wilmot was the only daughter of a younger brother of the vicar's, who dying, left his child-then of tender yearsto the care of his brother. Trained in all the elegance of the then fashionable female accomplishments, and possessed of depth of mind equal to the beauty of her person, it is not, perhaps, surprising that I was an almost constant visitor at the parsonage; the kindness of the good old pastor, and the gentle acts of friendship of his no less kind niece, are circumstances that will ever shine as bright memories in the moments of retrospection. A kind of friendship rather than anything else existed between us; and it was not without great heaviness of heart that I thought of our parting-perhaps for ever. After due consideration, however, I at last determined that I would save both of us that often eventful word in our life-Adieu.

The morning was lovely as I started out of the small yard of the inn of "our village," perched on the roof of the aforesaid coach; Nature, freshened with the morning air, sent forth her beauties with luxuriant grandeur; larks sprang on high from their mossy couches at her command; while, from many a woody glen, the throstle's note came warbling forth, so soft, so sweet, that passers by might fancy that it came from heaven; everything, in fact, spoke of calmness and happiness. Here from a cottage door came rushing forth, with many a joyous shout, the dimpled children of the cottager, who, with brawny limbs scarce covered with rags, came also to the door to see the passengers on the coach-to him a little world. But though the children were ragged and poor, they were happy in their poverty, and so more to be envied than half the slaves of wealth.

How strange it is, but yet how true, that our fancies alter with the moments of our existence! Full twenty times within a mile from starting did I wish I had spoken once more to Marian. Fain would I have stopped the coach to go back to see her, but such an act would have been madness; so I was compelled to proceed on my journey. We had not proceeded far, when, amidst the screaming of the female passengers, and the groaning of the less delicate portion of humanity, one of the off-side wheels came off, and went flying a-head. Fortunately the coach was not very full, or the consequences might have been serious; so, by all leaning to the near-side, we escaped the damage that might otherwise have resulted. Of course we could not proceed for some time; so, taking advantage of the delay, I set off back to say "Good-bye" to her, whom I now felt to be the guiding star of my existence. An hour's walk brought me to the beautiful little residence of her uncle. On entering the gateway, I beheld Marian tending, with gentle touch, the choicest flowers, of which she was so fond. We had not met for more than a week, and I was surprised at the change in her look and behaviour. She seemed, in that short time, like the gay rover of the summer sunshine, to have emerged from the chrysalis of careless youth into the grave and steady manners of womanhood. She seemed to be in the very MORNING of her existence, and as I looked upon her "lovely form and feature" I felt proud of having even the friendship of such a creature of light. Our farewell words were few; and as we parted, she made me promise to visit her on my return. I promised, and we parted.

Years rolled by, and beheld me again, in the month of June, wending my way on the same road I had traversed five long years before. Nature in that time seemed to have slept; though Time, with rapid stride, seemed passing on with more than fearful havoc. The same views met my gaze, the same familiar voices rang upon my ear; but those who spoke were not the same. Children who used to toddle to me as I sat upon the road-side bank, and lisp into my ears some childish sentence, now turned away from me as I passed, with all the pride and consequence of riper years. But travelling on, I could not help pausing on a scene of more than ordinary loveliness-'twas Marian's favourite spot; a small streamlet glided across the road, while higher up it turned the miller's wheel. Determined once more to visit a spot so dear to the memory of my childhood, I proceeded by the brook-side to an old tree upon its bank. A seat was round its sturdy trunk when last I saw its giant arms, and stood in the welcome shade beneath its clustering leaves; but on reaching, by the well known road, the much-loved spot, I was scarce man enough to hide my tears on beholding my dear old favourite tree dead and stricken by the lightning's blast. "Twas almost the first relic of home that I had seen; and as I dashed away a truant tear of fond remembrance from my sun-burnt cheek, I could not help but think it a bad omen of the things to come. In haste

I turned from a scene so sad to me, cast down in spirit, weary and sad. I sauntered back, till at last I came in sight of that dear spot, in which were concentrated all the hopes, the fears, the every thought of happiness, for me. I hastened on to meet once more the old man's kind embrace, and hear again the tender words of friendship from Marian's lips. When near the house, I scarcely could collect my bewildered senses to know the place, so altered was it since I had last seen it. The garden, kept before with neat compactness, was now hidden from my sight by tall, rank weeds, growing above the garden railing. Her favourite rosetree, in the centre, was alone visible-withered and dying, and bearing the golden tinge of Flora's death; the few pale buds upon its branches were drooping with the blight upon its leaves-blighted and dying in the very beauty of their short-lived summer. The old church seemed full a score years older than it did five years back: its sturdy wall, covered thick with ivy, which, in those gay days for me, was refuge only for the friendly sparrow, and no less friendly warbler, robin, now sheltered many a nest of noisy starlings; while, on the top, a croaking raven had built its dusty home, and startled passers-by, on starry nights, with its dusky form and horrid scream among the tombstones in its neighbourhood, like the evil spirit, calling out with vengeful voice for those that were his own. Time and storms seemed to have wreaked their foulest vengeance on its battered form. I hastened through the church-yard walk to gain admittance to the vicarage-house, when, scanning over the monuments of those departed, my eyes became transfixed upon a monument of more than usual simplicity, which a man with swarthy arms was putting in its place of destination. Stopping to see the name of the poor departed spirit, I gazed with breathlessness on beholding the following inscription on its polished face :

SACRED TO THE MEMORY

OF

MARIAN WILMOT,

Who departed this life on the
17th June, 18—.

"All gone-all gone:" the words rang in my ears as I sat, or rather fell down, sick and faint at the realization of my worst fears. From the mason at work I learnt that she had been buried but the day before, in the vault of the vicar's family, who, I learnt from the same source, had, since the death of his niece, become a broken-hearted old man. I stopped to hear no more, but turned towards the hall, where I found my father well; thus rendering the trial less irksome to me. I stopped a few weeks, and then returned to my regiment, a wiser and, I trust, a better man.

Many years, since this event, have now passed by in their steady course, and I am getting in the decline of years, a bachelor, my health broken by unwholesome climates, and my spirit destroyed by the remembrance of my early loss.

One consolation I have-I kept my last promise with Marian: I visited her on my return, though it was in the NIGHT time of her existence. Though years have now rolled by, and the monument placed to her memory is grown over with moss and tinged with age-though her name is one now never heard by me from human lips, save my own-I often visit the resting place of her who in my boyhood's days was to me as the cloud of Israel, to guide my path through all the dangers of a soldier's life; and as I look around me in the old church-yard on the remembrance-stones of those who, in early life, were my monitors and playmates, the sad words still ring in my ears—“ "All gone-all gone."

THE ACACIA TREE.

Not with the damp and stagnant earth
Can she have part, the beautiful;
Not sunk the glory of her birth

In matter the corrupt and dull,
Nor in the flowers she loved to cull
Is her fine essence merged and fused,
Since Death himself cannot annul
The graces which she ne'er abused;
Nor rose nor flower, if fairer be,
Can image her who went from me.

Nor do her eyes look through a star,
As Indian mourners fondly say
Who recognise the dead afar,

Familiar in each nightly ray;

Nor on the breeze she takes her way,
That beauteous and evanish'd wife;

It is too stormy in its play
For her who had no thought of strife;
But by my cottage door I see
Her emblem in the Acacia Tree.

It was a tender sapling when

Her playful hand inearthed it there;
But it is flourishing and green,
And I a wintry stem and bare!
Yet trembling in the sunny air,
Of its own shadow'd self afraid,

Its fluttering murmurs speak of her
Whose timid arm on mine was stay'd;
Nor yet more grateful is its shade,

From storm of rain or fervent heat,

Than from life's cares her sweetness made
My home a place of calm retreat,
From turmoils of the world to flee
Like thy own shade, Acacia Tree!

It is an alien in its kind,

That like as wandering, homeless Jews,
Come to us with the eastern wind

From warmer skies and kinder dews;
And, seeing it, I cannot choose
But think of her who left her race,

And mated with a rude recluse,
Could still preserve her buoyant grace,
The kindling beauty of her face,

That shed a brightness on our land, And glorified each thing and place

Sunned by her eye, touch'd by her hand; Well, then, her monument may be Child of the south, the Acacia Tree.

Child of the south, thou still canst spread As fairly here thy leafy crest, Unscathed the honours of thy head,

That proudly bendeth to the west; Our northern sleets thy hardy breast Assail unharming. Oh, that she,

Whom in the grave I laid to rest, Had braved the unsparing winds like thee! But the dark foot no eye can see

Trampled her life and strength away,
And 'numbed each vital energy,

Cold as the snows that round her lay;
Beneath our sky's inclemency,
Fade not like her, Acacia Tree!

The branches at my window pane
Are always pattering through the night,
And soothe my grief with fancies vain
Of summons from her loving sprite;
And when the infant day is bright
The burnish'd leaves dance o'er the sill,
Like smiles from her, with gush of light
My vacant house and heart to fill;
And oft at eve, serene and still,

The fragrance of its scented flowers
My inner heart's recesses thrill

With memories of our wedded hours,
And then deep sighs of sympathy
Moan in thy boughs, Acacia Tree!

The yew-flank'd churchyard, where she lies,
Beyond my trellis'd gate is shown,
And thither stray my weary eyes
So often as I sit alone;

But over one new graven stone
A slender bough the Acacia throws;

Of all the tombs it hides but one,
The one that weighs on her repose,
And if my heart too heavy grows,

And sinketh with intenser pain,
The kindly blossoms interpose,

And bid me rise to hope again.
I would not leave my small domain,
The humble roof that once was hers;
The rooms that echoed to her strain,
Where now no sound of joyance stirs ;
But precious most, and dear to me,
I would not leave the Acacia Tree!

SONG.

E. A. H. O.

THOU DOST NOT LOVE ME.

(In answer to Mrs. Norton's exquisite Ballad, “I do not love thee.")

"I do not love thee," sayest thou?
Yet, could I read thine heart,
Methinks it would the truth avow,
And other thoughts impart.

Thou dost not love me!

If 'twere so
Then thee I've loved too well;
Yet in my breast, through weal and woe,
Thine image still shall dwell.

Thou dost not love me! yet thy tone
Betrays those words are vain;
Let" Pride" no more the truth disown,
Thine heart doth love retain.

CLARA PAYNE

"A merry Christmas!"-What a welcome salutation in the ears of every Englishman! Well, indeed, that there is one period of the year set apart for Christian joy and gratitudean opportunity for assembling around the domestic hearth, and of bringing our dear absent friends together; some, perhaps, whom we have not seen since childhood, and whom we may never, perhaps, see again

""Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark

Their coming, and look brighter when they come ;"

for leaving the busy hum of men, and hastening from the ledger, counter, study, market, to share the peaceful delights of a home-fireside and its luxuries-delights which can be found nowhere else. What more pleasing than to behold one who has arrived at the winter of his days, greeting his second and third generations, and who repeats in his heart the simple language of Richard at the village fair

"God bless you all, my girls and boys; How glad I am to see you here!"

"A merry Christmas!" cries the gallant lover to his fair Adona, when he whispers tales of love-ay, and under the mistletoe.

A merry Christmas!" says the creditor to the debtor, mayhap hoping the mirth of the season will infuse some silvery balm for him.

Some consider that Christmas has gone into "the lean and slippered pantaloon." True, it may be more refined now in its bearing, more graceful in its deportment: but is there less warmth of heart, less hospitality than characterized the "by-gone days?" Surely not; although the old drinking-horn may be changed for a cut-glass goblet, and Miss Clotilda may blush to dance under the mistletoe, while she willingly languishes in the polka. "Tis true that, when you look back upon the past year, many changes may have taken place-many pleasures and troubles to recall to mind, which are the common lot of all. Some chair, perhaps, may be vacant, which a year ago was filled by one in the enjoyment of health and every earthly blessing. The young and the old, the rich and the poor, the learned and the unlearned, have alike been taken from the scenes of mirth to the cold and darkened tomb. But even these reflections have an improvement, and should remind us of that great achievement which Christmas is intended to commemorate, that blest redemption which alone can cheer the desponding heart, and impart tidings of great joy to the pious and the virtuous. And to such our celebration here is but a type of a future festival, when friends shall meet to separate no more,

and no cloud obscure their sunshine, in the mansions of celestial radiance.

But are there none to whom "A merry Christmas" may be spoken in vain? Would that it were not so!

"Oh, ye who gather round the glowing hearth,
To drown the hours in streams of social mirth,
Turn to this cot, and for a moment scan
What stern misfortune pours on suffering man,
Nor doubt the scene that curdles on the view:
The tints are homely, but the picture 's true.'

66

Ye who are affluent, forget not the want and wretchedness of your poorer neighbours. Even the crumbs off your luxurious table may prove acceptable to many. And whilst you are enjoying the good things of this life, with the feast of reason and the flow of soul," peep into some poor man's hut, and gladden his heart with some of your abundance; "fling a faggot on the hearth, and a seasonable morsel on the creaking table;" it will double the enjoyment of your own repast, and give you a lasting satisfaction in being the weak instrument for imparting comfort and plenty to many a hungry soul at this festive season.

the hand of benevolence and good-will, will enA deep sense of gratitude, accompanied with sure to all "A merry and a happy Christmas," which I so readily and sincerely wish may be realized to the ne plus ultra by the readers of the NEW MONTHLY BELLE ASSEMBLEE! Chelmsford.

A. M. WICKS.

In watching the sea, the mind never becomes weary; each wave, as it curls its silver foam and dashes on the shore, has some novelty in it. There is no monotony in the motion of the waves, and the mind speculates momentarily on each variety of motion and of form, excitement, pleasure, and wonder. It is no less true finding in all an inexhaustible fund of amusement, than remarkable, that the ocean is the only substance which, in its movement, has not a wearying effect upon the gazer. All other forms, animate or inanimate, may amuse for a moment, a minute, or an hour; but their charm is gone, there is a monotony in themselves, they are unchangeably the same in their general form. Even the brook, rippling along, has a monotony which is not in the motion of the sea. Perhaps the nearest approach to the pleasing variety shown in the movement of the ocean, is the ever changing, ever varying display in the features of the HUMAN tion or repose, the next the varying ripple, as the FACE; one moment expressing the calm of resignaever changeful thoughts-like the uncertain winds, playing over the waves, display themselves upon its surface-and, anon, the boisterous storm of anger, madness, or revenge!-W. H. Fisk.

LINES.

(Occasioned by hearing a gentleman wish he were a woman.)

Oh, who would be a woman? Never, sure,
One human being who has known and felt
A woman's duties, or a woman's fate.
Is it profane to ask, by suffering bowed,
Why the great God, who placed her on the earth
To be man's idol, or his slave-oh, why
Did He not steel her gentle heart, instead
Of filling it with tenderness and love?.
Wherefore did He bestow such dangerous gifts?
And why those cravings for affection, which
Man's deep devotion can but half repay?
Oh! none that ever felt a woman's cares,
Her tenderness, anxieties, or fears,
Doom'd from her hour of birth to be in turns
Caressed, forsaken; slighted, now admired;
Flatter'd, and then despised. Or, what is worse,
To linger in suspense and painful doubt,
Without the power of knowing how to act,
Whether to love, or whether to withhold
That precious tide, that in her bosom flows
Pure, fresh, and endless; even when the frost
Of man's ingratitude has bound her heart
(At least its surface) in his icy chains;
To see the pearls most precious in her eyes
Trampled beneath the foot of vulgar scorn,
And crush'd beyond redemption. Such her life!
Were I a mother, surely I would weep
A daughter's birth, but that the memory
Of the Messiah's death forbids my tears,
While I remember that to woman's care
The great Creator gave his only Son,
That for our sakes his Virgin mother bore
Sorrow and grief," as though a very sword
Her gentle soul had pierced," while she beheld
Her much loved Son upon th' accursed tree!
Yet He, while in his deepest agony,
Cared for, and pitied, that lone Woman's woe;
Wherefore my heart has faith, and blessed hope,
That for that mother's sake, He cares for us.
Regent's Park.

LOVE-QUARRELS.

BY CALDER CAMPBELL.

Contend not with the Loved!

FANNY U.

Seek not the dangerous stimulus of strife! No reconciliation e'er hath proved

Sure, in recurrence; for the rose of lifeSweet Love-is frail; its delicate perfume, Wafted away by wrangling winds, no more Returneth to revive its passing bloom

The ravenous blight hath pass'd into its core !

"Love Quarrels !"-are they sweet?

Beware the direful fallacy, nor try
To bring the treacherous tiger to thy feet

From the dark den where it doth sleeping lie! Content with hivèd honey, sweet as pure,

Seek not the poisonous treasures of the wasp; And, satisfied with beauty, throw no lure

To wile the speckled serpent to thy grasp !