though, when he took to the life of an inn-keeper, and, if report spoke truly, a far worse calling, he had ceased to attend the meeting-house, yet he still affected, at times, a godly style of speech, delivered with somewhat of a twang, and mixed with his own homely reflections and remarks.

66

'Oh, sir! whatever were you going to do?" exclaimed Giles 'Don't suffer such wicked thoughts to come into your head. Dear sir, consider that you'll be denied Christian burial, and have your corpse buried in the highway, and a stake drove through you, as Farmer Fagg was served at Dobcross! To be sure, it can be nothing but the devil puts such wicked thoughts into your head, as I have heard the blessed Mr. Wesley say.'

Page made no immediate answer to the landlord's highly suggestive speech, but he walked to the window, and opening it, discharged the pistol, the report breaking the stillness of the summer evening, and startling the birds from their shelter amongst the leafy screen of foliage that girt the landlord's little garden.

"There, Giles! art satisfied now, man?" said Page, with a bitter smile. "Go, and bring me a bottle of thy best claret; for I am athirst, my tongue cleaves to my mouth."

Giles immediately prepared to go on this errand, saying, as he did so- "Nay, but this is well; t'would be unseemly for such an honourable, brave man as yourself to take away your life because you had ill-luck just for once; you'll have better, mayhap, next time."

'Sorry fool!" soliloquised the highwayman, as the landlord left the room," he would divert me from shooting myself, with the apprehension of being buried in the cross-roads, and a stake run through my body, but would urge me to fresh deeds of violence, which must end in the gibbet. To be hung in chains would be just as horrible to most minds as the cross-roads and stake; and the poor fool thinks," he added, in a musing tone, as he advanced to the casement, and fixed his eyes earnestly on the dying glories of the western sky, "that his cant influenced my determination to give up my fell resolve. Ah, no, Giles! 'twas something stronger; 'twas the sight, again, of that aged face, shrouded in its white locks, that looked up at me months ago, from the dark gulf of waters, when I meditated that fatal plunge from the bridge! And so it looked at me to-night, from out those gold-tinted clouds, that seemed to encircle the hoary head with a halo of light, and gazed at me warningly, sorrowfully, till it seemed to be absorbed and to melt away in the dazzling glory of the sky!"

"WIND-TOSSED LEAVES."*

It is well for a man to take stock at least once in his life. Every one has somewhat of the poetic temperament within himsome more, some less-so little with some, as to consign them like Pariahs, without caste in the world of feeling. It is, apart from poets pre-eminently distinguished as such, mainly the intellectual man or woman, who finds refuge from the toil and distraction of the world, or from more laborious pursuits, in poetry, or who when liberated for a moment from the struggles of existence, pours forth his moral and sentimental being in verse. Metre is to such as great a relief as music is to the too great tension of an over-burthened mind. Here is Mr. Charles Curle-an old contributor to the NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE-a gentleman and a scholaro historian, archæologist, and scientist; a very Triton among minnows for erudite research and learned disquisition, and yet who has been engaged during a fair portion of his existence-from school days to maturity (and a little after)-penning "rhymes," sonnets, songs, and other more pretentious poems, and publishing them under various pseudonyms. Yet might they have been lost like other leaves, that have served their summer purpose, had he not wisely gathered them together, and boldly put them before the public as his own progeny-it is for the said public to determine if the offspring are as fair as the Galatea of whom Virgil sings, and to whom Mr. Curle pens so charming a madrigal, or as ill-favoured and distorted as the Cabiri or imps of the Egyptians, not the dwarfs of Samothracia,although with them the originals of the gnomes of the Erzgebirg and of the Black Forest. We have no fear about the verdict ourselves, even had not many of Mr. Curle's poems set to music, as "Foot-prints in the Snow," "Love for the Old," "The Muffin Bell," "Queenie's Song," " Army, Navy, and Volunteers," been long ago accepted by the public as their own property. But the man who could indite that wondrous dream of the unknown world "The Breath of the Invisible :"

Weird fancy peoples echoes never ended :

Like shadow thoughts, when in our hearts we pray,
With their mystic harmony seems blended

Faint glimmerings of remote celestial ray

As some starry beam

O'er a sedgy stream

Sprinkling light within its watery way;

Wind-Tossed Leaves, reclaimed by Charles Curle (Barfoot Shenstone),

&c., &c.).-E. W. Allen, London.

that "Dream of Joy," yelept "Monti of Milan," and those soft sweet aspirations after infinite tenderness, breathed in "A Whisper," deserves more serious consideration than even the limner of those dainty pen-and-ink pictures, entitled "Maiden at the Lodge," "Mneia," "La Marc hesana," " Avona," and a host of others, as full of colour as they are radiant with beauty, or the composer of a hundred popular songs. Mr. Curle is even happy in

his more cynic moods, witness:

"Where exclusiveness prevails

It shuts out the mountain climbers with the dwellers in the vales.
Woman should cling to her mission, she was sent to sweeten life,
Whether sister, friend or daughter, fiancée, or loving wife.
Hateful are the acid-hearted, sour in aspect or in tongue;
Never for their sake have poets numbers tuned or verses sung;
Save when in remorseless rancour sharp the biting accents fall,
Or when pity gives her verdict in the words "unloved of all.”

(က)

JANIE'S LITTLE ROMANCE.

"The short but simple annals of the poor."

JANIE had an invitation to a ball, and she was happy. It would not be much of an event to most of us, but it was like a tale of fairy-land to this poor, lonely girl, and she had nothing to wear.

She had no mother to go to a century-old trunk, made of wonderful spiced wood, and take therefrom a marvellous fabric of India muslin, like woven mist, or a beautiful, priceless set of antique pearls; nor did she ever have a cheque given her by an indulgent father, as an ordinary heroine would have had.

She had no mother or father, this poor, neglected, hard-worked nurse-girl. No one in all the wide world to take the slightest interest in her, beyond seeing that she earned her miserable five dollars monthly (and clothes), and that she patiently submitted to all the pinchings and kickings administered by her juvenile charges.

There was no beauty in Janie, unless you except her eyes and hair; all else was commonplace and almost vulgar. Her eyes were large, dark, and mournful, as if she had never known a friend. Her hair was a rich brown, wavy and abundant. Her face was dull, heavy, and sallow. Her figure coarse and awkward. Her hands were red and ill-formed; nothing interesting about her, you see; and, therefore, you may wonder at her receiving this invitation, coming, too, as it did from the bright and handsome young mechanic, Charley Edwards.

All day Janie went about her manifold duties in a dazed sort o manner, but with an unusual smile on her lips; and she received many an extra rebuke for her mistakes from her mistress. They rolled off, however, like dew from rose-leaves from Janie's now happy heart. At last, in the midst of a sweet reverie, wherein all was beauty, and where Janie and Charley walked side by side, her mistress spoke sharply—

"What are you staring and grinning at? I can't see what is the matter with you to-day. Don't you see that the baby wants to pull your hair? Let it down."

Poor Janie gave her long and beautiful hair to the tender mercies of the baby. After he had gone to sleep Janie fell thinking what she should wear to this ball. She had no idea of what would