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"ONLY A YEAR AGO."

ONE year ago-a ringing voice,
A clear blue eye,

And clustering curls of sunny hair,
Too fair to die.

Only a year no voice, no smile,
No glance of eye,

No clustering curls of golden hair,
Fair but to die.

One year ago-what loves, what schemes
Far into life!

What joyous hopes, what high resolves,'
What generous strife!

The silent picture on the wall,
The burial stone,

Of all that beauty, life, and joy,

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Remain alone!

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The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,

Above that head;

No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray
Says he is dead.

No pause or hush of merry birds
That sing above

Tells us how coldly sleeps below
The form we love.

Where hast thou been this year, beloved?
What hast thou seen?

What visions fair, what glorious life?
Where thou hast been?

The veil the veil! so thin, so strong!
'Twixt us and thee;

The mystic veil! when shall it fall,
That we may see?

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone;
But present still,

And waiting for the coming hour
Of God's sweet will.

Lord of the living and the dead,
Our Saviour dear,

We lay in silence at thy feet

This sad, sad year!

MRS. II. B. STOWE

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THE boy had been disobedient. He had been warned not to mount a certain horse in his father's stud-a new purchase, of whose temper the father was uncertain. But the youth was self-confident, and vain of his skill in horsemanship; so in the absence of his father and the head groom he persuaded a stable helper to saddle the forbidden animal, and then started for a gallop in the park. He might have ridden his own pony, and welcome: but what pleasure would there have been in that, compared with the excite

JULY, 1867.

H

ment of exercising mastery over the fine creature whose disposition had yet been untried?

"I shall be all right, Tom; no fear," he shouted, laughing, as the impatient, high-bred and high-fed animal bounded forward when the man let go the bridle; and in another minute, horse and rider were scouring swiftly over the soft green sward.

"A fine lad, that," said Tom to himself, as he stood watching his young master till he lost sight of him among the trees. "A fine lad! such pluck! such spirit!"

Half an hour afterwards, and Tom was alarmed at seeing the horse, with no rider on his back, wildly racing in the park. Calling for assistance, he set off in search of his young master, who was presently found lying insensible on the ground, beneath a wide-spreading tree. He was bleeding from a fearful wound on the forehead; and it was found, on attemping to raise him, that his thigh-bone was broken.

It was plainly seen how the accident had happened. The horse as well as the rider had a spirit of his own; and finding that the controlling power on his back was weak, determined to have his own way. Smartly stricken, probably, by the boy, he had managed to get the bit between his teeth, and thus setting bridle and curb at defiance, he had madly careered at his own pleasure or passion, whithersoever he would. The boy had apparently kept his seat bravely until, passing beneath the wide-spreading tree, his head had come in contact with a small branch (well it was that it was not a large one); he had thus been thrown from the horse, and in the fall, had sustained further injury.

It was a month after this, when partially recovered from the effects of the accident, but yet pallid, weak, and unable to move from his couch, that the boy turned his tearful eyes towards his father who was seated by his side. "It is all my own fault, father," said he, mournfully and self-reproachfully; "it is all my own fault, and that is the worst of it."

It was his own fault, there could be no doubt of it; disobedience and self-will had met with its appropriate punishment.

Many years have passed since then; and the boy is a man, having boys of his own. But, though he has wealth in good store, he is an afflicted man. He is subject to distressing attacks of head-ache and vertigo; and he limps

painfully. "I have never been hale," he says, " since I had that fall from a horse in my boyhood; and the worst of it is that it was entirely my own fault."

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A young man, twenty-three or twenty-four years of age, walks, full of hope and expectation, up to the door of a mercantile house in the city. He has been strongly recommended to the head of that establishment, as suitable to fill an important and lucrative post; and he has no doubt that he shall succeed in obtaining the appointment. He has excellent testimonials as to character. His own father was a personal friend of Mr. M-, the merchant; and great interest has been employed on his behalf in influential quarters. Moreover, Mr. M- has promised to give favourable attention to his application. No wonder, then, that the candidate hopes to succeed.

It is necessary for him to obtain employment, for he has almost spent his small patrimony, and poverty is staring him in the face. At one time, indeed, he did not think that he should ever need to work for bread, either with hand or brain. But unexpected events have wrought a change in his prospects; and he is glad to fall back upon the assurance that his father's old friend will think favourably of his claims. To write truly, the young man is not disinclined to exert himself. He has determined to shake off the chains of idleness which habit has fastened upon him; and he has honest principle enough to declare to himself that he will fairly earn the salary which he believes to be within his reach.

So, with a comparatively light heart, he enters the merchant's office, and is speedily received by Mr. M- himself in his private room. The interview is not a very long one, for the merchant's time is worth money to him; yet neither is it hurried; for he has a hearty desire to benefit the son of his old friend. Nevertheless, when the young man leaves Mr. M's room, it is with a downcast countenance, and rapid but uneven steps. He has been subjected to a few kindly expressed, but straightforward and searching, questions, which proved at once to the man of business that the candidate is utterly unfit for the post he desired to occupy. He is especially wanted as a foreign correspondent; and his slight imperfect knowledge of any modern language but his own, sets the seal upon the disappointment he has met. "I am sorry," said the good-natured merchant, tempering

his verdict with soothing words; "but you yourself must see that I cannot place you in that position. I can give you a seat in my office as an ordinary clerk, and will gladly do so; but the emolument will be small."

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"It is very kind of you to offer that," said the young man ; "and I accept it gratefully." And so he has withdrawn; saved from starvation indeed, but with disappointed hopes. It is my own fault," he bitterly reflects, as he hurries home to his lonely lodgings: "it is entirely my own fault. I might have been a good linguist if I had chosen. For I had the means of becoming so when I was a youth at school. And nothing stood in the way but my own indolence and want of application. My teachers told me so; and I laughed at them, and asked what would be the use of my being able to patter in a foreign lingo? I know now that it is all my own fault; and that is the worst of it."

A few years passed away, and the disappointed man is a poor clerk-a drudge, where, but for his faulty ignorance, he might have held a position of importance and worldly comfort. He has, indeed, never rallied from the effects of his sore trouble; but when he looks round upon his meagrely furnished home, he often whispers to himself, " It is my own fault."

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There was a terribly destructive fire in the high street of a country town. How it originated no one could tell; but it burned and blazed fiercely for many hours of a summer's night, lighting up the sky, so as to be visible for miles round, with a lurid glare. At length, the efforts made to extinguish it were successful; but not till several houses were burned to the ground, and almost all they contained was consumed. There were the stocks in trade of a grocer, a draper, a cabinet-maker, and a stationer, involved in the destruction; and damage to the amount of several thousands of pounds was sustained. The families that had thus been deprived of a home, sought refuge for a time in the houses of their neighbours.

"Ruined! ruined!" exclaimed one of the unfortunate tradesmen when, on the following morning, he was mournfully contemplating the havoc which a few hours had made.

"Don't say so, Mr. E—,” said a kindly voice beside him; and turning, he saw an old friend at his elbow, who clasped his hand sympathizingly.

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