waking him to consciousness that the past had been a fearful vision of "trial" to him, as he sat by his yet unstained and undeserted hearth, with that lesson of life before him; and the warm tears falling yet upon his hand, the ONLY REALITIES of that fearful dream! Oh! the mercy of that blissful waking! The gathering belief in life, liberty, and right! The dimned gaze out into the breaking day-the whisper of conscience that it was daylight yet within his heart; the spirit-sight of the saviour-seraph, watching his work of mercy; the sudden burst of worship and thanksgiving, and the consciousness of a clinging form; and of tears, mingling with his own, falling from eyes that had watched him in the tireless watch of affection, through that night of peril. These were the gifts scattered before the tempted, whose "Trial" had been granted to him in dreams! These the good angel's "Temptations" to the perfect trust of right to help against wrong; to the deed of integrity, and belief in its acceptance; to the heart-acknowledgment-that, in the home of honesty and right dealing, though the tempest of misfortune break around it from without, within there is recollection that, "when the night is darkest, the dawn is nearest."

AUTUMN.

I saw the melancholy Autumn brood,
In seeming discomposed and angry mood;
The sear-leaf fell a yellow harvest round,

And winds made silence pregnant with their sound.
Branches were scatter'd on the strewed earth,
Breathing a prophecy of coming dearth.
And borne on high upon the gustful gale,
Were petals from deflower'd hill and dale,
And thistle down, and other mingled seed,
Sported disorderly, like captives freed.
And sat dishevel'd Autumn in rude state,
Whilst in her eyes burn'd discontent and hate.
She look'd on stately wood, on hill and dale,
Where verdant beauty did so late prevail,
And envy plung'd her rank'ling dart of pain,
When thinking Summer had a fairer reign!
What did she whilst destroying angels flew,
Marring the face of heaven's celestial blue,
Stripping the oak, shredding the wreathed bower,
Plucking each blossom, scattering far each flower;
Making the path of blest luxuriance bare,
And culling perfume from the wooing air?
Soon as she gazed upon the shreds that lay
In many a mournful relic round her way,
She scarf'd herself within a sullen cloud,
And wept large crystal tears, and sobb'd aloud.

A few pale flow'rets that were loth to fade,
Yet hung their blossoms in the mournful shade;
These Autumn counted, linger'd o'er with pride,
And placed them in recesses dark to hide.
She fondly thought, that prodigal decay

Would not perceive them, and that they would stay
To deck her mantle, or her forehead gem,
A regal and victorious diadem!
But as she sat with glowing looks profound,
Gazing with dudgeon on her realm around,

She saw decay pass on with gentle tread,
Her sear-leaf garland whisp'ring round her head,
And to retirements secret did she go,
As if intent on mischief-making woe.
Then Autumn scowl'd, and started up unbidden,
For fears came o'er her for the blossoms hidden,
She look'd intently both afar and nigh,
And with an anxious and distrustful eye,
Till with despair she saw amidst the bowers
Decay all busy with the ling'ring flowers!
Then in stern anguish which knew no relief,
She lay till all bore witness of her grief,
Long fitful moans, and tears all icy cold,
Enough, if not too much of sorrow told:
At last with passion, disappointed pride,
Autumn, though blest, yet unregretted died:
Wrapp'd in a shroud of sear-leaves was she laid,
And Winter, gloomy monarch, reign'd instead!

CHARLOTTE CAYME.

MY CHILDHOOD'S HOME.

My childhood's home! how many a thought
Back to my memory has it brought,

Of scenes that passed in youth!
Once more in spirit do I see
Those happy days of infancy;

Those days of love and truth.

Again I feel I am a child,
With laughter loud and spirits wild,
And boundless steps so free;
With all the joy that pleasure lends,
I see again my childhood's friends,
Just as they us'd to be.

With them I oft have wander'd wide,
O'er meadow green and mountain side,
Or by the running streams;
And when the sun too warm would be,
We told our tales 'neath some large tree,
And shelter'd from his beams.

Oh, then we play'd such merry games,
(The object of our highest aims

Some new one was to learn);
Impatient was each beating heart,
Till they the new game could impart,
And playmates' praises earn,

Oft we would pluck the cowslip light,
The golden buttercup so bright,

To weave a garland fair;
The daisy and the hedgerose too,
The woodbine and the hare-bell blue,
And twine them for our hair.

November 20.

I believe I am the only person in the house who remembers to-day as the anniversary of my dear late mother's birthday; on the 20th November, too, her last illness began, and today I attain my seventeenth year. Various associations are these for one day! When I came down in the morning, my father presented me with a very handsome rose-wood writingdesk, as a birthday gift. I had been thinking too much of my mother to be very joyful, and I fear he thought my reception of his present rather ungracious. I tried to be cheerful afterwards, but the shadows of my mother's grave were about me to-day. As we are still in the country, no party was invited; but my aunt will give one in honour of my birthday next week. We are to go to town on the 28th.

November 24.

Two years ago to-day my sweet mother died; my father was very kind to me, he seemed to be thinking of her all day. He gave me a portrait of her, taken about three months after her marriage. How beautiful are her calm features! those soft blue eyes seem to smile upon me from the ivory.

November 25.

This morning, after breakfast, I took my work, and sat as usual in the bay window. I was watching the clouds, and the effect their movements made on the appearance of the sunlighted trees, when my father looked up to me from his book quite suddenly, and called me to him. He seated me, and took my hand. He turned his face away, and told me that he was going to be married again! I started so violently, that he seemed displeased, and asked, "Is it such a very extraordinary thing for a man to marry again?" I thought Yes; when his first wife was like yours;" but all I said came in the form of a request for pardon. I inquired if I knew the lady? He said no; but added, that she will be at my aunt's next Monday, and then I shall of course be introduced to her. How can my father marry again? Many are my forebodings that our home will for the future be unhappy. I long to see whether there be any likeness between my father's new love and my own dear mother. I shall be more ready to forgive him if there be any point of resemblance. To-morrow we go to London.

altered prospects at all since he announced his intention to me; and I did not like to speak on the subject, for it still seems to me a sort of crime. Sunday he went to church with me in the morning, but went to Bayswater to dinner. I dined, therefore, quite alone. Yesterday evening my aunt gave the party in honour of my birthday, and I saw the lady who is to live here. Can I ever call her mother? I think not. My father took me very early, and she was alone with my aunt when we arrived. She is a contrast to my mother in every respect! Taller, stouter, and having hair perfectly black. Her eyes are dark and flashing. She was dressed in black satin, her arms bare, and she wore a plume of ostrich feathers on her head. She is indeed a queen-like woman. She wore also a splendid suite of pearls. I learn with dismay that she has three sons! I shall never know were not present at the party. Mrs. Stowell is home with so many strangers in it. Her sons a widow! She received me very graciously, and said to my father," Your daughter, Dr. Foster, is quite a blonde;" just then, as my right hand was in hers, I awkwardly caught my left in the little chain that hangs to my mother's portrait, and the picture fell out of my bosom. Mrs. Stowell's quick eye saw it, and she whispered, "You are very like her." I wish I had watched her more narrowly while she said it. The marriage is to take place this day month.

December 1.

My father has had the house completely refurnished while we were at Woodford. He has kindly put my mother's cabinet, desk, &c., into my room. The dear little bird she fed even the day she died, sings, although it is December. My father is with Mrs. Stowell all his leisure time, at least he does not often spend any of it here. Three bed-rooms, and a sittingroom on the same floor, have been handsomely furnished for her sons. I am glad they have a sitting-room to themselves. I wonder how old they are; not boys clearly, by the arrangements made for them here.

December 28.

ferent from his first!-that was in bright July, To-day is my father's wedding-day; how dif this in wintry, snowy December. I very nearly committed myself when I greeted him in the morning. I only just saved myself from saying, "I wish you many happy returns of the day." My father seems to notice every look of mine that bears upon this proceeding-it seems as if he thinks me the representative of my mother's feelings and opinions in regard to the new marriage.

About ten o'clock we arrived at Mrs. Stowell's house. I was to be first bridesmaid; with a quickly-beating heart I followed the maid to Mrs. Stowell's chamber; she was dressed magnificently in bright emerald-green velvet, and looked very beautiful, but oh! not fit to be the successor of such an angel as my mother. Her welcome was very dignified, yet gracious. She kissed my cheek, and expressed sorrow that I looked rather pale. My heart was far away. I got up at six o'clock this morning, and walked through the snow with Margaret (faithful Margaret) to my mother's grave. I hung on the simple cross a wreath of the best flowers I could procure. I thought she must not be forgotten to-day. I frequently ask myself whether she thinks of me-whether she is allowed to look upon me now. Often, after a long reverie about her, I break off the thread of my recollections, and say, with a sigh,

"E tu, chi sa se mai

Ti sovverrai di me!"

About half-past ten we entered the carriages. At church Mrs. Stowell repeated her part of the service in a clear and firm voice; but my father was very nervous, and scarcely spoke to be heard. The breakfast was very elegant. The three sons seem to have as much prejudice against me as I had conceived against them. They answered very coldly when I was introduced to them. To my father they behaved with deep respect: indeed, his professional and literary reputation secures that from every one. The sons are quite grown up, the eldest about five-and-twenty, a physician; he has taken his degree, and is to be in a sort of partnership with my father. The second is about three-andtwenty, and I suppose the youngest may be a year less. Mrs. Stowell did really look much younger than she is; I took her to be thirtyfive, and find she is forty-three! I could not keep back my tears when my father called me to bid " my mother" adieu. I think he looked vexed, but how could I bear this?" My mother" (what a desecration it seems as yet) said she hoped I should be happy at my aunt's while they are away. She said they intend staying out about six weeks. Dr. Stowell is to take my father's duties during the time. Dr. S. is very tall, and like his mother; but he is much haughtier than she.

February 13.

To-night I am at home again, and tolerably happy. My father and Mrs. Stow-my mother I mean-arrived about five o'clock. The three young men were here a little before, but I did not see them till I went down to receive my father. He seemed delighted to see me, and looked at me often during dinner. But I was not very comfortable; I felt as if I had three eagles looking at me, though I daresay the Stowells did not even deign to cast their eyes upon me. (This is a bitter spirit, and very unlike my mother; I must try to do better than this.) Dr. Stowell and my father conversed very cheerfully, the one asking questions, the other

answering them, about the patients and their welfare. My mother (I must write it, to accustom myself to it) was reading "Corinne." Mr. Robert Stowell, the second son, is an excellent draughtsman; he amused himself by taking portraits of us all without our knowledge. I was ashamed to see how pensive I looked when he showed me the picture. Trying to be cheerful is always hard and unsuccessful work. John Stowell sat with a book on the table, but he did not read much; he was perpetually making fun with Robert about something. He seems very noisy; a look from his mother silenced him at last. My father seems to like them very much: they all address him as "father" quite cordially. John's book was "Sir Charles Grandison," I saw. As I was undressing I heard a gentle knock at my door; it was given by my mother: she spoke quite kindly, said she hoped I should be happy with her, and finally gave me a very pretty ring, with some of my father's hair set in it behind the stones. I saw the tears in her eyes as she said sadly, "I should have much liked to put a little of my own in with it, but I feel that to your mind hair so dark as mine has no business to be mixed with his." I kissed her, but could say nothing. How sorry I am that my sadness should have been apparent, and that she divines the source of it!

February 14.

My mother is very punctual. Breakfast was to be at eight o'clock, for she is an early riser. At a few minutes before eight she came down, dressed very becomingly in a loose morning dress of scarlet cashmere. Her black hair is very beautiful. What a contrast do her manners present to the almost childish fondness of my own mother! How she used to hang about my father's neck, play with him, and sing to him; and she was aged only thirty-one when she died. Alas! that so much innocent gaiety should be so early quenched in death! Dr. Stowell came in, a minute after his mother, and shook hands with her, as he bade her good morning, with a somewhat stately air; he walked up and down the room as if he were truly "monarch of all he surveyed." John, the youngest, next came, and flung his arms round his mother's neck, kissing her at least twenty times; then, in approaching his king-like brother, who now stood looking out of the window, he pirouetted till he came near enough to offer his morning salutation, which he did by kneeling on one knee, and kissing his brother's right hand. The effect was very ridiculous, for purposely, and quite suddenly, he lost his balance and fell flat on his face, looking up into Dr. Stowell's calm countenance with a ludicrous grimace, expressive of pain and surprise. Dr. S. very calmly said, "John, I wish you could see how very unbecoming is this buffoonery." Here my father and Robert Stowell came in together. Robert affectionately embraced his mother, and cordially shook hands with me; I like him best of the three, he is so kind and unaffected. When I took up my work-basket

after breakfast I found in it a note, written in a hand quite new to me; I replaced it in the basket till my mother left the room, and then read as follows:

MY DEAR SISTER,-May I not address you thus? I take the liberty of writing these few words to assure you that I will endeavour to behave as a true brother.

I see with regret that your health is delicate, and with scarcely less regret that your sensibilities are extremely acute. You are not at ease with us yet. Arthur's haughtiness is, I know, only external; he has behaved to John and myself with the prudence and goodness of a father. The whole of the property was left to Arthur by my father, between whom and my mother there was a separation for some time before his death. We were therefore penniless, because we had openly and perhaps too defiantly espoused our mother's side. Directly Arthur came into possession of the property, he settled a third upon our mother, to be hers, and entirely at her own disposal; the remainder John and I shared equally with himself. John's manners are playful and somewhat noisy, but a little more intercourse with the world will improve them, and I am sure he will be more quiet if he see that you dislike his noise, for he is exceedingly good and kind. I fear you are not very well now, and am grieved to see you so pale. I am a sorry physician to tell you of your delicate looks, but I will strive

to be

Ever sincerely yours,

ROBERT STOWELL.

This is very kind; I shall carefully treasure the note; I really like Robert. My father came home to lunch, and then took my mother and me out in the carriage. He looked gravely at me as we went along, and said to my mother, "I trust, Harriet, you will not let my darling sit too much in-doors; that is very bad for her.'

This was the first time for some weeks that my father's attention had been so entirely fixed on me, and I could trace surprise and anxiety on his face. What is it they fear for me? If I die, I go to my mother. My new mother answered very kindly, "Our darling shall sit as long, and only as long as she pleases; I shall be very happy if she will constantly be my companion." I promised to do all they desired me, and I think my behaviour to my mother gratified my father. As we rode along I saw Robert walking, but he did not see us; he was going very steadily, looking upon the ground. I thought it very likely he was wondering with what feelings I read his note. After dinner (I sat next to Robert, who said he considered the places permanently fixed) Dr. Stowell was unusually gracious; I say "unusually," though unusually," though I had only seen him once before last night. He came round to me, and took my hand; I see now why it was done. I felt his finger stretched out upon my wrist; he was feeling my pulse! I inferred that my father had been consulting him about me. I did not let them know that I saw through this little deception, it was so kindly meant; but I felt that my face flushed directly, and I heard my father whisper, "Harriet, look at her now, that is her mother's look; how bright she is!"

sung

Robert saw that something excited me, though he did not know what; he proposed that I should go up stairs and look over his portfolio. I agreed, and we went into the "boys' sittingroom," where was a cheerful fire. He has travelled a great deal, and has a variety of sketches. He is wonderfully quick in drawing; he took my likeness in pencil in a very few minutes. He paints too, and is going to paint a miniature, on ivory, of me. He loves music: there is a very nice piano in this room for his use; so I played and sung to him. I Mrs. Hemans's Messenger Bird." Why I chose that I scarcely know, but its soft and plaintive melody comforted me much. He asked me if I were taking lessons of any kind. I said, "No, I discontinued them when we went to Woodford in the summer, and have not yet recalled my masters." He took me to his book-case and gave me a key to it, saying I was always at liberty to come home and read there, or to fetch them away, if I would promise that when he is here I will come as often as possible to read with him. We are going to read Italian together.

66

I felt very happy when we were summoned to the drawing-room; and John's fun was not troublesome to-night. My mother and I played draughts: Dr. Stowell was called out about eight o'clock, and returned at ten. He appeared much affected when he returned: his mother inquired what troubled him. He said he had just come from a baby's death-bed. The infant was the first-born of young parents. I did not think he had so much feeling. John even looked sad when he heard the cause of his brother's sorrow, and after a moment said, "I can never grieve for the death of a little child: how much of sorrow and temptation it escapes! I think, even if the child were my own, I should scarcely sorrow. This is not because I should feel no pang to see the little innocent borne from my bosom to the silence of the grave; but because, to me, in death the body is nothing, the spirit all." (Robert looked at me with a tearful smile, as if to say, "You see John can feel, and is something better than a romp!")

"You are right, John," said Dr. Stowell; "I am weak in this respect-and in many others," added he, after a moment's pause." He retired then, and his mother went up to see him. When she came down, she told us that the child belonged to one of Arthur's former schoolfellows, and present most intimate friend. I like Dr. S. better for the feeling he displayed on this occasion. The next morning, when I came down only Dr. Stowell was in the breakfast-room; he seemed as calm and imperturbable as ever he was before last night. I can scarcely tell whether he is generally unfeeling, or whether he has attained a high degree of self-command. He addresses me very ceremoniously as "Miss Foster." Robert always, and John sometimes, calls me Alice: for John grows often suddenly constrained, in the midst of his fun, when he speaks to me: this seems unpleasant.

I cannot note down thus the occurrences of every day. I must say briefly that the winter

X

passed away, enlivened by parties at home and abroad, and that it is now March. The winter has been severe, and I find myself thinner and more changeful in health than I was before the cold set in. Robert is unceasingly kind: at all the parties I was allowed to attend he watched for the least sign of fatigue, and, directly he found it, took me home. When my father gave parties, directly I seemed tired, or too much excited, he quietly withdrew me out of the room. He does not seem well lately; what troubles him I cannot tell. I see that he strives to be cheerful in my presence; everyone, indeed, looks upon me at times with sadness, but this is checked directly they perceive I observe it. Dr. Stowell alone seems always the same: that young man will never be in love, I feel certain.

March 17.

I heard with much surprise and regret that Dr. Stowell is to take me, in company with a consumptive patient of his, to Italy, to spend a year, perhaps two! It seems terrible to have to go with such a grave, cool person as Dr. S. If only Robert were going, I should hope to grow stronger; but to leave him--the most pleasant companion I have ever had-at a moment's notice is too much. He has promised to write to me regularly, though. My mother has been kindly busying herself all-day preparing for our departure. Margaret, of course, will go to attend on me. I startled my father, I believe, by the quiet calmness of my voice, when I asked him to promise that, if I did not recover, I might be laid by my mother. He clasped me in his arms, and said, " God forbid, my dear love, that I should do anything to grieve you: I promise, but I hope, indeed I feel sure, that you will get well." He quickly assumed gaiety, but he is a bad actor.

August 4.

After rather more than a year's absence from England do I find myself once more at home, perfectly recovered. My father, mother, brothers, all seem glad to see me, and I am much better acquainted with Arthur. His unvarying wisdom and kindness have done much towards reestablishing my health. I have rallied him on his bachelorhood lately, but desisted when he told me he hated his single state, and will change it as soon as we get settled here again. How I wronged him when I thought him unfeeling! Robert tells me that, by mutual consent, Arthur and his beloved delayed their marriage that he might go with me to Italy; for the lady's father would not let them be married, that she might accompany us. I learn more that is interesting, every day, about Dr. S. He and his favourite friend loved the same girl: Arthur discovered this, and finding that Miss Hamilton loved his friend, had the moral courage to bear his grief silently, that he might not mar the happiness of

two so dear to him; for they were both ignorant of his unfortunate affection. It was the death of their child that grieved him so. Robert, who was his only confidant in this affair, told me. About three months after the marriage, he and Marianne Hamilton-a younger sister of the bride-met for the first time; she had resided some time in Edinburgh with an aged aunt, whom she could not leave to attend her sister's wedding. Her mind was well cultivated and acute: she had gained much wisdom in her aunt's sick chamber. The death of this venerable lady had saddened her a great deal, and somewhat injured her health. Arthur, as the physician of the family, was consulted, and he fell in love with his patient. I earnestly trust they will be very happy.

John is as noisy as ever, always playing with his mother or me-yes, with me, for I am strong enough now to feel no inconvenience from his rough play. But Robert is still my favourite: we sit together in the "boys' room," as my mother calls it, every evening. People begin to smile when we go into a room together; and my mother, the other evening, inquiring for Robert, was answered by my father just as I entered"He is tolerably near, Harriet, you may be sure; for here is Alice!" It is so foolish of people, as I constantly tell them, to fancy that there is no such thing as friendship between young people like Robert and myself: they must construe it into "love!" But I confess I was puzzled how to reply, when John took me into the garden last evening, and said, "I want to consult you, as you understand everything of this sort so well. Is this love or friendship? In the dusk of the evening two young people sat together on a sofa. The young man was very handsome, and his lady-companion equally attractive. Her head leaned upon his shoulder, and her long, pretty golden hair fell quite caressingly upon his hand. He bent down and kissed her! I am tolerably sure I heard this token of friendship returned. I heard him say, 'Now, Alice, tomorrow I mean to ask your father when we may be married!' And I wish to know," added John, "is that love or friendship?" I pushed him away, and ran in-doors.

My wedding-day!

November 8.

"THE CUP OF LIFE."

(Quatrain.)

BY F. L. JAQUEROD.

Behold the gall-filled cup of human life!

Its surface fair what honeyed sweets invest! These childhood skims, with eager passion rife; Ah me, the doom! Stern manhood drains the rest. September, 1847.