had sufficient good sense to be pleased rather than jealous of the influence which she possessed over Robert. "So you do not like smoking?" said Mrs. Conway; casting at the same time a mischievous glance towards Hannah, who at that moment entered. "Do you hear that, Hannah?"

"Yes, mother," replied she very demurely, "and I cannot say that I am altogether sorry, for it certainly does make the breath smell very unpleasantly sometimes."

"But my breath does not smell now, Hannah, dear!" said Robert, kissing her. And, as the girl looked up into his frank open countenance, she longed to whisper --that smoke, or do what he would, she did not believe that there was his equal in the whole world. It was as well, perhaps, that she did not it will not do to humour ones lover too much. It is different with a husband.

Hannah sat between them, with a hand in each; she was very happy.

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Why should it not be always thus?" whispered Robert Conway? The girl looked timidly at his mother. "Answer him, Hannah," said she. "I also am impatient to have two children instead of one." But still she never spoke a word.

Mrs. Conway had been young herself, and she rose up to leave them together; but Hannah would not suffer her.

"Do not go, mother," said she, timidly.

"What is it you fear?" asked her lover, drawing her gently towards him.

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'Only-only that this should be all a dream!" And she rested her head upon his bosom, and wept. Robert Conway smiled as he soothed and kissed away her tears. As Hannah said even then, it was too great happiness to last.

That night she told her father and mother everything, with many blushes and a few tears, for she felt home-sick at the thought of leaving it for ever, although it was to live close by; however, the day was at length fixed for her marriage. And the old people blessed her again with joyful hearts, together with the lover of her youthful choice.

'Yes, he is worthy even of our Hannah!" said Mrs. Lawrence.

"even if he

"Worthy! O, mother, he is too good for me!" 'Impossible!" replied the old man, were the king himself."

"Robert will not spoil me as you do," said the girl, stroking down the father's long white hair with playful fondness.

"I am not so sure of that, or how he will be able to help it."

Hannah laughed, but there were tears in her eyes as she bent down to kiss his withered brow. The conversation now turned upon the many things that were to be done and arranged before the wedding could take place. Hannah wished to have her young cousin Maude Hetherington sent for, who, with her ready invention, and nimble fingers, proved a great acquisition on the occasion. Besides which it was very pleasant for the girls to talk together in their leisure moments, or when they went to bed at night; and often until morning dawned; for Maude likewise expected to be married before another twelvemonth, and they had a thousand things to say to one another. Maude was older than her cousin, and sometimes took upon herself to play the monitress.

"Do you not humour Robert Conway almost too much?" said she one day.

"Oh! not half enough! If you did but know how kind, and good, and thoughtful he is!" "Yes, just now; but take care, or by-and-bye he will be playing the husband and the tyrant."

"Are all husbands tyrants?" asked Hannah, archly. "Well, I do not know about that; but it will not

do to let them have their own way too much beforehand."

But I cannot help letting Robert have his own way, because, somehow, his way is always mine. We cer tainly do think strangely alike about everything.”

"Not strangely," said Maude, with a smile. "And so you have really consented to old Mrs. Conway's living in the same house?"

"It was my own suggestion. Robert is greatly attached to his mother; and so am I too, for the matter of that. The dear old lady seemed quite beside here! with joy when she heard that she was not to quit the home of her childhood, where she had seen so many pleasant days, and will again, please God; and blessed and thanked me, with the tears in her eyes; while Robert stood by, looking as happy as a prince. Der Robert! he is so easily pleased, so easily made happy Well, I only hope you may never have cause to be sorry for what you have done. For my own part, would not live with a mother-in-law for all the world "But mothers-in-law are not always alike, Marie, dear!"

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"True; and to be sure Mrs. Conway is very kind sz. good natured; only a little too grave to be a fit cer panion for a young girl like you."

"But I mean to become grave too, when I a married," answered Hannah, with a smile.

About a week before the period fixed upon for the wedding to take place, Hannah complained of a soc den faintness, and looked so pale, that her mother and cousin were quite frightened.

Nay, it is nothing," said she, "but do not tell Robert, lest he should be uneasy about me."

Maude supported her to her chamber, and persuaded her to lie down on the bed for a few hours, after which she got better again; so that, by the time her lov came in the evening, all traces of her recent indisposi tion had entirely vanished. But she grew sad after be was gone, and observed to her cousin, that she feared she had not deserved such happiness.

"I thought so this morning," said Hannah, "when I was taken ill. Oh! Maude, if I were to die, what would become of Robert? We love one another s much!"

"Hush!" replied Maude, "I will not have you talk thus. God grant that there may be many years of hap piness in store for my dearest cousin!"

Forgive me," whispered Hannah, “I am very silly” "To be sure you are," said Maude, kissing her affe tionately.

Every stitch in Hannah's simple wardrobe, even i her pretty white bridal dress, was of her own setting Many said what an industrious little wife she would make; and there were not a few who envied Robert h good fortune, and could have wished themselves exactly in his place, although the girl herself would not have changed to have been made a queen. All the cakes. too, were of her making, assisted by Maude, and be old mother, who could not however do very much; and it was cheerful enough to hear them talking and singing over their pleasant tasks. As Maude said, "What was the use of being dull? for her part she could never see anything in a wedding to make one weep, unless, indeed. the bridegroom should be old or disagreeable, or going to take her away from all her kindred and friends; and even then she would not marry, unless she could love him well enough to go cheerfully."

"As for you, my dear cousin," added she, "about to be united to such a man as Robert Conway; with a sweet little cottage close by, so that you may see your father and mother every day, if you like- why I could almost envy you, if it were not for certain anticipations of a similar happiness in store for myself. Ah! you shall come to my wedding by-and-bye, and see how merry we will be!"

"And help to make these nice cakes, eh, Maude? said Mrs. Lawrence, laughingly. "But you are looking

pale, my child," added she, turning to her daughter, and we must not have you tire yourself. There is another whole day yet."

Hannah smiled, or rather tried to smile; and, tottering as she walked, went and sat down by the door as though she felt faint.

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Are you not well, cousin?" asked Maude. The girl's lips moved fast, as they grew every moment more white and colourless, but no sound came. "It is only a fainting fit," said Maude, endeavouring to appear calm. "You had better bathe her temples with a little cold water, while I run for Mrs. Conway. I will not be gone a moment, and she may advise us what to do."

She soon returned, followed at a distance by the feebler steps of her aged companion. Rendered utterly helpless by grief and terror, Mrs. Lawrence could only wail and wring her hands like a distracted thing, calling in passionate accents upon the name of her child; while Mrs. Conway, whose presence of mind never forsook her, directed Maude to send immediately for the doctor, applying in the mean time all the restoratives usual on such occasions; but her care was vain. Between them those aged women bore the stricken girl in their arms, and laid her on the bed, where she remained white and motionless, as though carved out of stone. Seeing that there was no more to be done, Mrs. Conway knelt down and prayed as we only pray at such times as these.

Maude returned with the doctor, and they tried to bleed her, without success. All their attempts to restore animation were in vain; the girl never spoke again, but died towards morning peacefully and without a struggle. Once only she opened her eyes, and looked around her with a wild agonizing glance that was never forgotten by those who witnessed it. Mrs. Conway closed them softly and shudderingly with her hand, and she never moved after that.

Pale and horror-stricken, Robert made one of the little group who stood weeping in their vain grief around the bed of death. And, when his mother rose at length from her knees, and laying her hand upon his shoulder, said in a solemn voice, half choked by tears,-" The Lord has given, and the Lord has taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord!" his heart refused to utter, Amen!

Maude's grief was deep and passionate, but nothing in comparison to the wild lamentations of the bereaved parents: until at length, completely worn out, they both fell asleep by the bedside of their dead child, and dreamt that the wedding day was come. Mrs. Conway had taken her son home, thinking he would be more likely to recover his composure, away from that terrible scene; and poor Maude crept about the house, putting out of sight all the simple bridal finery, over which they had taken so much pains only the day before. "As for the cakes," thought she, "they must do for the funeral." And she began to weep afresh as she recalled to mind all the pleasant words and merry jests that had been uttered over them; almost the last words that Hannah was ever heard to speak being in playful anticipation of an event that was not to be. Of a truth it was very terrible! No wonder that poor Maude felt heart-stricken, and like one in a frightful dream. No wonder that she sobbed and cried, when even a strong man like Robert Conway wept. Every moment that Mrs. Conway could spare from the side of her half distracted son, was spent at the cottage, where she assisted Maude in performing those sad, but necessary offices, of which the poor old mother, in her deep affliction, seemed utterly incapable;-speaking words of comfort and consolation, and endeavouring to improve this melancholy event to the heart of her young companion, by teaching her the frailness of all earthly hopes.

Two days and nights had elapsed since the spirit of the young and beautiful betrothed had passed away without a word, or a prayer; and the two sorrowful

mothers sat together in the dim twilight, exchanging now and then a few kind words, but more frequently remaining silent for long intervals, during which memory was no doubt busy enough. Maude was a little apart by the half-open casement, working on a black gown for Mrs. Lawrence to wear at her child's funeral, and pausing every now and then, to wipe away the blinding tears that hindered her from seeing what she was about; and thinking the while, perhaps, of a certain dress, over which she had taken so much pains for a far different occasion.

"It is too dark, I am sure, for you to see to work, Maude," said Mrs. Conway, at length; and her voice sounded strangely loud in that silent room. "Go into the field, dear child, and look for your uncle; it is late for him to be out alone."

The girl did as she was desired, and found him kneeling amid the long grass, with his white hairs uncovered, and the tears streaming down his withered cheeks. Not liking to intrude upon his grief, Maude stepped behind a large tree and waited, hoping that he would presently rise up of his own accord, and return home. Meanwhile it grew quite dark, and so still that the inmates of that desolate cottage could almost hear the beating of their own hearts. Mrs. Conway arose at length to procure a light, and just at that moment a faint, moaning sound was heard, proceeding, as it seemed, from the bed where the corpse lay. Mrs. Lawrence clung fearfully to the side of her companion

'Did you not hear something groaning?" whispered

Yes, I thought so; but it might have been only the

wind."

"Hush! There it is again!"

"Let me go!" exclaimed Mrs. Conway, hastily disengaging herself from the terrified grasp of her companion. "It is Hannah's voice!" And tearing aside the curtain from the foot of the bed, there was Hannah, sure enough, sitting upright in the dim moonlight, and looking wildly around her, like one awakened from a heavy sleep.

With ready presence of mind, Mrs. Conway threw a large shawl over the dead-clothes in which she was wrapped, and spoke to her calmly and soothingly, motioning to the mother, at the same time, to go out quietly and call for assistance; but Mrs. Lawrence stood still and motionless, as though her feet were glued to the floor.

"How cold it is!" murmured Hannah, shuddering as she spoke. "But what is the matter? Have I been very ill, mother?"

Yes, yes; but keep quiet, dear child, you will be better soon!" And freeing her face, she laid her head gently back on the pillow, and went as fast as her tottering steps would carry her to summon medical assistance, and prepare Maude and Mr. Conway for what had happened, leaving the mother, still motionless and terror-stricken, in the darkness.

By the aid of heat, and restoratives constantly applied, Hannah soon began to rally, and by the morning was almost well, but for the weakness and exhaustion, and a strange feeling of weariness, beneath the influence of which she at length fell into a gentle slumber. How anxiously did they all listen to her calm regular breathing, and gaze upon that sweet face, once more coloured with the warm hue of life. How they longed to be able to get off the grave-clothes without her knowing it, fearing that the shock would be too great, but could not without disturbing her, which the doctor had strictly forbidden. How they wept, and prayed, and blessed God!

Presently Hannah opened her eyes, and fixing them upon the anxious faces that were watching over her, inquired of her mother if she had been long ill. "No, my child, not very."

"Ah! I remember now-I was taken ill while we

were making the cakes; but it is only a fainting fit. By the bye, Maude," added she, as the girl came forward, and bent down to kiss her, "I hope you looked after them, for the dough was just rising, and they promised

to be excellent."

Her cousin tried in vain to keep down her struggling sobs, and answer calmly; while Hannah, mistaking the, cause of her emotion, added kindly,

"Well, never mind, dearest ! We can easily make more; it was my fault for frightening you.-And mother, do not say a word to Robert, please, about my being ill; it is past now."

"You must not get up, Hannah; indeed you are not strong enough" exclaimed Mrs. Conway, trembling lest she should discover all.

"Oh, yes, I am so much better; and Maude and I have a thousand things to do. It was only the heat made me feel faint. But how came I by this shawl?"

asked Hannah, as she endeavoured to unfasten it from about her shoulders. "It is Mrs. Conways!-Has she been here!"

"She is here now," replied the kind voice of her old friend, while a tear fell upon her uplifted brow; "but you must lie still, my child, and listen to what I am going to tell you."

"Please don't let it be a very long story, mother dear," said Hannah, as she flung her arms around her, and laid her head upon her bosom, like a playful and weary child.

Who shall attempt to describe her feelings when she heard all feelings expressed rather by tears than words. Mrs. Conway understood them best, when she motioned to the rest that they should kneel down and pray for her, that she might never forget that solemn hour in which God had restored her to them, as it were from the dead.

Robert Conway was half beside himself when he heard the joyful news; and could not rest until he had gone in softly, and kissed her hand, as she lay pale and tranquil upon the bed: for, somehow, he dared not touch her lips, although she was his own betrothed bride. After that, many of the neighbours came just to look upon her, and congratulate the old people on the restoration of their child. But none spoke above their breath, for fear of disturbing her.

In a few days, Hannah rose up, and went about among them all just as usual, only that she was paler and graver; but no one wondered at that. The wedding did not take place until some time afterwards; when Robert received his young bride as the gift of God; and truly she brought a blessing with her. Hannah lived many years, and was a happy wife and mother, and what is better still, a happy Christian; meekly trusting in the merits of her Redeemer, and ready whenever it shall please God to call her to Himself.

There are many instances on record, somewhat similar to the above; but not all ending so happily. It was only a few days since we heard of a poor woman, living in an obscure country place, who suddenly became insensible, and was supposed dead. On the night previous to the interment, her sister, who occupied the next chamber, was disturbed by a slight noise, and looking in, saw the corpse sitting erect, and attempting, as it seemed, to remove the grave clothes from about its face. The terrified woman caught up her sleeping child from its cradle, and fled away, half naked as she was, to the house of a neighbour nearly a mile off; where she remained all night, although they only laughed at her, and fancied she must have been dreaming. The following morning, however, the appearance of the corpse fully corroborated her statement; giving fearful evidence of the struggle that had been going on between life and death. The poor woman might have been alive to this very day, had her sister only possessed | presence of mind enough to assist instead of deserting her in that dark hour of untold agony. And yet we are ready to make every allowance in a case where none of

us can be quite certain that we should have had the courage to act differently.

The story of the sexton and the ring must be familia to most of our readers; and we could tell them maz others equally wild and wonderful-melancholy historie for the most part, but not without their warning less. both to the aged and the young.

THE DISCOVERY OF THE STEAM-ENGINE

Ir some of the greatest philosophers of antiquity, of the middle ages, could re-appear and reside for a ye amongst Europeans, travelling through England, Frate and Belgium, they would perhaps see many of their or brilliant guesses and profound musings expanded in the sciences of modern times. Pythagoras might st his theory of the universe taught in every school, 21 illustrated in popular treatises; and Roger B. behold his anticipations verified in the beautiful & coveries of modern chemistry. They often saw in d. outline, and amid the glimmering of twilight, the trut which we calmly contemplate by the light of a briz noon: thus in some departments our knowledge dific from that of former ages in degree rather than in ki. they had mounted one or two steps upwards, we ha advanced a hundred.

But some of our discoveries are wholly modern, an i never once, as far as we know, entered the minds of ancient poets or sages. The steam-engine is che these conquests of the world's old age, which its you that is, its past periods, did not even register as a “ be so," or a possibility; simply because the thing new entered their thoughts, never once projected its fr along the horizon. Had it been proposed by × 1 oracle or superior being as a problem to such mea Aristotle and Archimedes, they might have admi the idea, but as a guess or speculation, it never of appears. This may reasonably excite some surprise, i one essential element of the steam-engine mást bu frequently presented itself to their notice. We all to the force exerted by steam, which must have be.. observed whenever boiling water was covered.

B

We should have expected that some of the subtle as tellects, then struggling to obtain clear views of L. phenomena around, would have stooped from specu? ting on the sublimities of metaphysics, to exataines simple a fact, and one so close at hand, as steam. as thousands have seen apples fall from the bough wi. out thinking of gravitation, so many generations look upon steam forcing itself from the vessel, without aski the question, "Cannot that power be made subservie to man, to lighten his labours and add to his joys Hard work and toilsome struggles were then, as Ees the lot of men. What an amount of strength, az even of life, were expended on the pyramids! W efforts on the great Roman roads!—much of which stem power would have saved; but this mighty agent wa allowed to remain unemployed, whilst the world to on, digging, building, and hauling navies through 1. deep, by the hand. Yet, during these periods, aca mies,-old, middle, and new, had risen, disputed, departed; thousands of books had been written, even t those ages, and ten thousand curious speculations on things visible and invisible hazarded; but no ma saw the sleeping giant, which in future ages shoa'd stretch his arms from the Thames to the Chinese se and make his voice to be heard at the poles. Thus the elements of power are often in the world, close at its doors, but the world sees them not. It is not our par pose to describe the steam-engine itself; such details are perhaps too technical for the pages of a magazine: * rather desire to note the successive steps by which mon reached the full knowledge of this world-moving power.

Reader, enter some store-yard,-on one side you see a beap of coals, near is a brook, and in a corner lies a quantity of iron; hast thou skill to shape that iron, use that water, and so arrange those coals, that from them a power shall arise able to carry thee and all thy townspeople round the globe in five weeks? You are

not much startled at the question; you have not, it may be, such mechanical knowledge, but feel quite assured that it is in the world, that some whom you could name possess the power. Let us then trace the road by which this discovery has been gained.

For fifteen hundred years after the commencement of our era, men saw not the energies hidden in steam, and a whole academy of philosophers might have walked into the store-yard, and gazed upon the coal, iron, and water, without a thought of the steam-engine. During this long interval, however, a glance was taken by one man at steam as a moving power; it was but a recognition, for the force was not yet pressed into man's service.

The philosopher who first detected the applicability of steam to promote machine movement was an Egyptian mathematician and mechanist (engineer we should call him), Hero of Alexandria, about two hundred years before Christ, who, in one of his treatises entitled "Pneumatic Machines," describes a circular motion given to a wheel by steam rushing through the spokes. This, though but a sort of mechanical toy, might have led others, even Hero himself, to dwell on the powers of steam, but his treatise remained unnoticed, and his experiment pointed in vain toward the road of further discovery. The schoolmen debated, the crusaders shook Europe and Asia, artillery filled statesmen and archers with forebodings, and a new world had been found beyond the Atlantic; yet, amidst all this work of busy nations, steam power remained a hidden thing. At length, a singular revelation is made in 1543, and exhibited before thousands, but finds the world unprepared, and retires to its hiding place. In that year the inhabitants of Barcelona were startled by the announcement that a Spanish captain, named Blasco de Garay, had offered to navigate a ship without sails or oars, and that the government had deemed the plan worthy of a trial in the harbour of the city. The day arrived, one in the bright month of June, well fitted to enable the Catalonians to see the new wonder cut the waters. Commissioners were appointed to watch the experiment, and report the results to the authorities. A vessel of two hundred tons burden, called the Trinity, was actually moved by steam, acting upon wheels, before the astonished city. Now the reader might expect that the management of steam power then began to excite the attention of men, especially of all who were aiming at the development of human resources. A strange disappointment is felt when we see the Spanish government rewarding Garay, and hear the majority of the commissioners report in favour of his invention, whilst no further results follow. What was the cause of this? Prejudice against the novelty, and ignorance of the machine, for de Garay kept his plan a secret,-may have prevented success. All that was known was that he used a boiler, and that wheels were turned by its agency. Is it possible, some one may ask, that a Spanish captain should invent the steam-engine, and unaided advance it to such perfection that a ship was moved through the waters by its action; and that such a discovery should be neglected by so ambitious a power as Spain? These things are stated as facts, and must be received as true, however extraordinary. machinery may have been clumsy, the working bad, and the power small, but that Blasco de Garay navigated a vessel by steam in 1543, cannot be reasonably denied. The experiment had little or no influence on the subse quent history of the steam-engine, and must be regarded as one of those bold movements which fail from unsuitableness to the age or the nations in which made. The attention of Europe had, however, been aroused;

The

men began to feel that steam contained within it some element of mighty force, and thus the hitherto neglected power attracted the watching eyes of philosophers. During the next hundred years some notices appear indicating this altered feeling.

An engineer of Louis XIII. who became clerk of the works to the Prince of Wales in the time of James I. paid some attention to the subject; and an Italian mechanist, named Giovanni Bianca, proposed to turn mills by steam. Thus, at the beginning of the seventeenth century men seemed watching for the birth of the new power. Amid the fury of theological strife, and the rancour of political warfare, whilst England was distracted by civil commotions, and battles raged by sea and land; the element destined to unite distant nations, and form the world into one great household, was slowly rising from its concealment of many ages. We now approach the period when the notion of steam power assumed a clear and distinct form, and took its place among the reasonable speculations and experiments of thoughtful men.

Edward Somerset, Marquis of Worcester, had engaged with ardour on the side of the unfortunate Charles I. and found himself at last in the Tower of London, his friends dead or exiled, his property in other hands, and the cause for which he had fought and suffered trampled to the dust.

What now occupied the thoughts of the Royalist noble? Some have enlivened the solitude of a dungeon by watching the habits of a spider, or observing the growth of a flower in their prison window; he turned his active mind to the unexplored realms of science, and gazed inquiringly along those paths at the entrance of which Bacon had raised the clear sign-posts, with the finger of true philosophy pointing the stranger in the direction which the world had so often groped for, and so often missed. To this imprisoned nobleman is ascribed the first well-digested idea of the steamengine. How did the thought reach him? By what is commonly called an accident, or more properly by the happy observation of a simple and most common occurrence, and by just reasoning upon the fact noticed. We must imagine the marquis scated in his small prison-room; on the fire is a pot, in which his dinner is preparing, his thoughts are not upon the meal, but flitting to and fro, across the numerous battle-fields, where the Stuart banner had drooped, or picturing the solemn and mournful circumstances of that 30th of January, 1649, when a king died by the headsman's hand. These reflections have, however, too often before occupied his mind, which is, therefore, easily drawn from such gloomy reminiscences to the events close at hand. What is that upon which Edward Somerset gazes so fixedly? That fire is not the alchemist's furnace, nor that pot a Rosicrucian crucible, and yet his eyes refuse to move therefrom. Nought is visible, save the hissing steam rushing from the pot, and the sharp risings and fallings of the lid, forced up by the expanded vapour. He has heard of men who regarded steam as capable of becoming a strong and untiring servant of mankind, and now sees those feeble heavings of its infantine energies with some strange fluttering anticipations. New thoughts crowd upon him, from which he, closely interrogating, sees other, and still more startling, ideas rise. The quietude of a prison enabled him calmly to follow out and test his opinions, which were published after the Restoration, in a book entitled "The Scantling of One Hundred Inventions." Those who can obtain access to the work may read in the sixty-eighth invention the theory of the Marquis of Worcester, and discern the point in the line of discovery to which he reached. The production of steam in one vessel or boiler, and its passage to another, in which its force should act upon the machinery, were included in his theory, and this is still the principle of action in our modern engines. Thus the Marquis of Worcester first marked out the plan of this mighty machine.