rays caught the glistening drop that had gathered in his eye and checked its course. He raised his eyes to the beautiful heavens, lighted up by the gold tint of the dazzling luminary, and his tears ceased. When they approached the "sweet spot," the shadows had so fallen that the sunshine only rested on the open grave. The coffin was lowered, the blessing given, and Alice was laid in her "last long home," strewed with the flowers that the villagers had gathered. Matilda, whom Norman had been scarcely able to support, now uttered a piercing scream. This seemed to rouse her father. "Alice, Alice, my darling, my precious, where are you? where have they laid you?" Kenneth approached, and leading him to the spot, said, "See you that grave where the sun continues to shine? That is were Alice is laid. We still remain in the shade. She has reached the sunshine, and only waits for you to follow." "Aye, aye, Kenneth, I will not keep her! Papa, and his little Alice will soon meet again. Don't close the grave!" Kenneth saw he was wandering, and drew him from the churchyard, followed by the silent multitude. CHAPTER XIX. MR. VERNON never recovered. He did not keep Alice waiting long. His senses were gone; and after talking incoherently for about a week another funeral took place in the village of Lauderdale. The effects of the first funeral brought on Matilda a fever. She was dangerously ill for some months, but eventually rallied. She was not, however, the Matilda of old; she took a smaller house in the neighbourhood; and though many offers of marriage were made her, declined them all. She told Annie the thought of marriage was to her a painful subject. She never left off mourning, and though Alice was constantly in her mind, she could talk of her to no one but Kenneth. He was often her companion, and their walk was always the same. to-day; the grave will only have to be opened once more." They were silent for some time. "Kenneth, I would not say anything to you at present if she had not desired it. You recollect her whispering to me, and now, over her grave, I will tell you what she said; her words were, "Harry, cannot you be his brother?" "And so you shall! Does Annie love you, Harry?" "I know not. I have thought of it before, but we are so young. We are both seventeen now. Do not speak to her yet. Only give me your consent." "No, Harry! You must both understand each other." A spasm crossed his countenance. "If you wish it, Kenneth, it shall be so; but we must wait for some years, if only for our youth, and then I must be able to maintain her. I was thinking of buying Heathfield House." "Harry, the Hall must be yours. Wait if you like for three or six years; but oh! Harry, I must have you at the Hall." "Kenneth, think, think! It is, indeed, dreadful to say it so soon after, and in this place; but, Kenneth, may you not want it yourself? You are so young." Harry, boy, I know what you say. You are generous to think of it; but no, Harry. The harvest has ripened; my little flower has been gathered; but it is blooming again. I go to meet my first, my true, my only love in heaven!" nearer, Treasured companions of my early days! Absence, to me, but makes them all the dearer, So 'tis that friendship, strength, and truth displays. Long, long ago, how different were my feelings! How fair the future to my eyes appeared! Time had not then made known its sad revealings, All then I hoped, but nothing ever feared. Long, long ago! Since then I've learnt the lesson) Which must be learned by every loving heart, That oft our joys to radiant beauty freshen, And when we think them all our own, depart. ISABEL. THE RIVER EDEN REVISITED. IN the calm, soft light of evening That meet thy clear waves' flow. Where first the day-beam fades. The snowy Burnet roses, Amid their dark green leaves, And the pale and fading hawthorn Fade slowly from the sky. The leaves and waves make music: All other voices die. And deeper grow the shadows And pines, whose boughs wave sadly, But hark! how slow and solemn Rings out the distant chime! On to the pathless ocean- That flings its spray-like flood. crypts of earth to fresh life, fresh vigour, fresh joy; and, unlike you, to immortality, and to the light of God's own face! As He calls you forth at the appointed hour, from the shapeless, heavy clods, so will He summon to meet the eye of day once more, all those, our loved and lost awhile, who are sleeping in Jesus till the resurrection morning. Many are the lessons you teach us, you fragile, brave little blossom of the meads and gardens; from you we learn to "suffer and be strong," to endure and to be patient, to make the best of our lot in life, and to smile on all around us and be content, even if the sun do refuse to shine, and the north winds blow, and we feel all alone,-alone in a cheerless, chilly world. You speak also of consolation, of hope, for "The snowdrop is the herald of the flowers, Sent with its small white flag of truce to plead You gave us, too, the bright promise of immortality; for as surely as autumn leaves fall upon the ground, and bud and blossom disappear, so surely comes again the gentle, blessed spring whose first-born child you are. And so surely as nature's spring again and again returns to gladden human hearts, and fill the fair, green earth with songs of joy and forms of beauty, so surely shall we, who must one day mingle with our parent dust, rise again from the darkness of death to enjoy the everlasting spring, that may haply ripen into perfect summer. tide, but will never, never know decay, or change that herald's dissolution; but fading not from its glorious prime, eternally grow fairer, and richer, and fuller, in the world beyond the grave. Lastly, we thank the good Lord for the beauty of flowers; for from His beneficent bounty came the starlike clusters, and the silvery petals, and the chastened loveliness, and grace of this, our first spring blossom! And with reverent lips and grateful heart we say, "Thy hand the comet's orbit drew, "Already now the snowdrop doth appear, Its name and hue the spotless plant retains, MRS. BARBAULD. THE DYING EXILE. I am passing swift away. I can close my eyes and see them-- As I weakly close my eyes! Spreads a golden pathway bright; Shall I mount that path of gold! Floating down those glittering rays- Coming, quickly coming home; FRIENDSHIP. FRIENDSHIP is like the stars of night, That cheers ns on with rays of light; And like the sunbeam in the storm, That brightens up the landscape lorn; And like a sweet and fragrant flower That blooms in some lone hidden bower; And like the evening airs at rest, That cool the brow and calm the breast, Drying the tears from weeping eyes, And stealing anguish from our sighs. Oh! Friendship, through all good and ill, Be thou a blessed angel still! And as we on life's journey glide, Be ne'er far distant from our side; For surely it is thine to bless True hearts with purest happiness.", ZINGARA. STRAY THOUGHTS ON CHILD HOOD. WE seldom think what a great boon it is to us to have been children, and to bave had those first free, happy days, in which to be gradually prepared for our part in the world. And then what a pleasure it is always to have those days to look back upon in after life! We all know how our childhood's joys and sorrows will remain fresh upon our minds, when many after-events of much greater importance have died away; and how frequently present cares and troubles may be forgotten in bright thoughts of earliest years. What happy, joyous creatures, children are, and how bright the future appears to their view! How eager is each little aspirant to take his, or her place, in this great world, and its concerns! To be men and women! What a prospect of happiness that appears to them! They see only the fair side of things, and little know the care and misery which may be lurking underneath. entirely of this earth, but seems rathe given as a link to draw our thoughts to a higher world, where all is purity and peace. Let us so think then of these little ones, and love them not only for their own sakes, but for the sake of Him who has said-"Suffer the little children to come unto me, and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven." STONEY. PLAIN WRITING. ONE of the worst plagues of editorial existence is the deciphering of almost illegible writing. Yet the remedy is so simple as to be at the command of nearly every contributor. Two conditions only are needful to render readable all writing that is not essentially bad. 1. Write a large hand. 2. Write with a broad-nibb'd pen. are so The latter is most important. Many persons, without any definite reason, imagine it impossible to write well if the pen has not a fine point. This-one of the greatest of "every-day errors"-is usually inculcated" at school." Our tutors only characterise as "good" penmanship that of which the "up-strokes fine as to be scarcely visible. This, whether in business or authorship, will not do. In really good, clear writing, the "upstroke" is thick; and if the "downstroke" be-as it ought to be proportionately thicker, the effect will not be less elegant than that of the writing usually taught, with the immense advantage of greater distinctness. They have the same view of life as we have of a theatrical scene-only the glitter and splendour are apparent; but as they grow older they get glimpses behind the scenes, and discover by degrees that all is not so bright as it seems. Ah, it is well for them that this discovery is made gradually, and that as one cherished fancy after another slips from their grasp, other hopes and interests take their place; for if the truth came suddenly upon them, what an appalling discovery it would be! Happy, loving little children, what pleasure they scatter around them, their very The best pens, in the writer's judgment, helplessness but serving to endear them for general use, are William Michell's to our hearts! They seem so frail, so "Selected," marked "J.," and Perry and entirely dependent upon others, so deli- Co.'s "No. 50 Broad." CARACTACUS. cate, and withal so innocent, that it is but [To which the Editor, from long pernatural to surround them with an atmo-sonal experience, would like to add John sphere of love. How unnatural sounds a harsh word oken to these little ones, throwing a Wight over their fresh, young spirits! For though, as their characters are formed, faults spring up, as weeds do in the most beautiful garden, and must be eradicated, should be done in a spirit of love, and Lot of anger. How like a cherub seems a sleeping child! It almost looks too pure to be VOL. VIL-NEW SERIES. Mitchell's "Medium Pen," No. 0261, as combining the softness and fluency of the quill with all the advantages of the most finished steel-pens.] |