now remember to have heard my mother say, more than once, "Oh, yes, that may do very well here; but when we are in the new house-' It has often occurred to me since as strange how all sentences having reference to our future abode broke off in that abrupt manner; the fact that it would be a "new house" appeared ample security for absolute perfection. I was the eldest child of our very large family, and being very plain-indeed I may say remarkably ugly I was not suspected of having any very strong feeling on the subject of our "flitting," beyond the hope that a certain old writing-desk, which was composed apparently of stiff handles and useless locks, should reach its destination in safety; but let a woman be ever so ugly, she is seldom without a soupçon of fomance, and I know that I secretly looked forward to the move with as much pleasure as did my little brother Tommy, who was at that period a youth of very tender age, and chiefly remarkable for tearing his clothes and cutting the tops off his fingers. The day fixed for our departure came at last; I intended to have taken a private but very sentimental farewell of the entire place, but especially of my own dear old room, in which I had spent so many happy hours; but I postponed the ceremony until it was too late, and when at the last moment I rushed in breathlessly, to see that I had forgotten nothing, I did not remember that I was looking for the last time upon objects which I had grown to love, and which were bound to me by the associations of years. I think we should be thankful that the Present keeps pulling at our skirts in this way, and saying "Come, come," when we would stand for a while holding the Past with both our hands, and thinking regretfully that we never liked it half so well as just at this moment when we are about to part with it for ever. It was evening when we reached our destination, and the children's boisterous spirits had quite ebbed away; but they again revived a little when we were told that at the next turn we should have the first view of the "new house"! "I dare say the view is pretty in daylight," my mother remarked, in a doubtful tone, which betrayed that her expectations as to scenery had not been fully realized. Then we were told that inside the high wall on our left was our garden, and we looked along it and up and down it, and those of us who had been in good gardens drew a mental picture of what it must be: of course there were well-trained fruit trees and banks of strawberries and endless varieties of vegetables, perhaps even a greenhouse. It is strange that we did not satisfy ourselves on this latter point by asking the question; and the fact that we did not do so, adds one more proof to the assertion that there is happiness in uncertainty. ambition; and yet we were not satisfied. We had a drawing-room with folding doors, and yet we always found it more comfortable to keep them shut. My father had a study; and yet we missed the familiar litter of his books and papers in the dining-room. We bought a very handsome bookcase; and yet, in a moment of confidence we agreed that our old books had looked far better when arranged on the brackets nailed against the wall of our old parlour. We had a greenhouse, too; and yet I do not think the flowers ever appeared so healthy in it, or blossomed so well as they had done in the sunny lobby window of the house which when we forgot ourselves we still called home. We set up a carriage; and yet I know that, however much we might admire the beauty of its make and finish, we never so thoroughly enjoyed a drive in it as we had enjoyed those taken long ago in a little wicker-backed machine drawn by a one-eyed pony. Yes, it was many years before the new house which we had so longed for felt like home. Why is this? It must be "That the past will always win Let us now stand behind this hedge, and watch yonder group upon that sunny lawn. They are all strangers to us; but if our faculty of observation is not altogether stagnant, we shall be able to learn some of their secrets. Yes, that very attractive-looking, middle-aged woman sitting under that shady tree, with a book beside her and some work upon her lap, is the mistress of the house. At a little distance from her seat there is a young lady standing-a girl I must call her, I supposeher eldest child I am sure, for she is very like the older laay. She has a grave, thoughtful face and as I watch the earnest expression of her dark eyes, I read plainly enough a "might have been " written therein. Some great happiness has evidently just brushed by her and passed on out of sight. I am the more certain of this as I observe that, when the mother's eyes wander from her book or work, they settle wistfully upon the quiet figure standing near. About a dozen young ladies and gentlemen are playing " croquet" on the smooth grass: I single out three of the former as also daughters of the lady under the tree, and I observe presently that it is upon the younger of these that the grave eyes of the quiet elder sister are fixed, and other eyes besides hers. How is it that that young fellow with the moss-rose in his button-hole, and who has studied the "becoming" with such success in his dress (I thought women had a monopoly of vanity), always conWell, we took possession of our new house, trives to stand beside her-that he will not beand we were all delighted with it; at least we lieve her capable of "roqueting" a ball without were never tired of calling the attention of each his aid, and that both of them have so often to other to the particular points in which it was be reminded that it is their turn to play, as they superior to the house we had left. We had at- stand-talking of the lovely weather, I suppose tained several of the objects of our modest-apart from the others? Is - It is more than a flirtation-I can see that not the classic tales of Greece or Rome which plainly enough, for ere long they secede from hold him thus entranced; nor is it their most the players, and presently they pass by, arm-in- successful rival in the favour of a school-boy— arm, upon the other side of the hedge; but they a novel by Captain Marryatt. No: he is are too much engrossed with each other to see poring over the closely-printed columns of the me, and I hear the murmur of his voice as he Times-reading with a beating heart and kincalls her his well, he spoke so low I could not dling eyes a noble burst of patriotic eloquence catch his words; and tells her that by that day- which had been uttered the previous evening month she will be again the precise words before her Majesty's faithful Commons by one floated away from me on the soft summer wind; of the most brilliant orators of the day. but you can fill up the blank for yourselves, as As he finished it he threw off his cap, pushed I did. They are all in all to each other: tell back his hair from his heated forehead, and exthem that they are now too happy, that by-and- claimed with a loud sigh, "That is something bye a reaction may set in, and they will laugh at worth living for! How happy must he be who you. Strong in the delicious delusion of their can put his thoughts into such magnificent lanown loving hearts, they cannot believe that a guage! Had I made that speech last-night I love as deep as is theirs could ever flow away, should not care if I had neither friends nor and leave only a muddy shallow behind-that money; and perhaps-" The boy's voice died the wonderful, the mysterious life of the affec-away; but not the less emphatic were the words, tions which has just begun in them can have, has often had, a darker "other side"-that a day may come when he will sigh, and say, "She is my wife, and yet I am not happy!" And she, "He is my husband, and yet-I am not satisfied!" If they would from the first admit the possibility of all their dreams not being fully realized -if, while revelling in the sunshine, they would throw a steady gaze onward into the shadow, all would be well. * in which he mentally vowed to exert all his powers of mind and body, should life be spared, to achieve a triumph such as that before him then. And now let us imagine that five-and-twenty years have passed: the ambitious boy has become an ambitious man. From the hour when, on the noisy playground at, he had vowed to be famous, he never faltered in his purpose, but kept his eyes steadily fixed on the desired mark, and went forward. The harmless pleasures of youth had no attractions for him-those pleasures which were not harmless, no snare : if he ever indulged in that dream which, sooner or later, comes into the life of every man-and woman too-the dream of loving and being loved, he put it quickly from him. He had not time to listen to the voice of the charmer. And he was at length successful beyond his wild Hark! that is a merry shout which resounds from the play-ground of yonder well-known school! Half the great men who have made England what she is were educated there, and not a few of the "outsiders" also, who have been neither "born to greatness, nor achieved greatness, nor have had greatness thrust upon them." How many of us are among these latest hopes, for at two-and-forty he was Prime ter, I wonder? There they are, happy, light-hearted, noble young fellows, without a thought beyond the pleasure of the moment, the possibility of "catching out" or "bowling out" that unrivalled batsman who has defended his wicket so gallantly this last half-hour, making more runs than the other eleven can hope to outstrip, although they have still all their wickets to "go down!" Let them laugh while they may, and while they can; they will soon have to cross the narrow bridge which divides the boy from the man; and when they have crossed it, will they not often look back regretfully over the ground they have trod, and wish that they were boys once more? Extending down the entire length of the play-ground, upon one side is a broad walk shaded by old and luxuriant trees. It is a favourite place of retreat for studious boys, who have neither taste nor nerve for the boisterous sports of their companions. On this sunny afternoon, while the playground echoes with the shouts of the cricketers and their audience, it has but one occupant-a tall, wiry-looking youth of about seventeen. He is reading, and so absorbed, that he has neither eyes nor ears for what is passing around him. But it is Minister of England! We heard his boyish boast that, could he attain some such eminence, he would not care if he were at the same time friendless and penniless : let us look at him now that he has attained it, and much more, for his wealth is princely, and his friends (of course) are numerous. He is sitting alone in his sumptuous library; on the table before him there is a breakfast-service of Sèvres china and costly silver; but his coffee has grown cold, and the delicate French rolls are untasted. Again, as we saw him twenty-five years ago, he is absorbed with the Times; but this time he finds in its pages the eloquent speech which he had himself addressed to the "House" only the preceding night. He reads of the applause which had followed his words; that some of the highest in the land had been among his auditory that the country was ringing with his name! Why, then, that shadow on his face?-why, then, that heavy sigh? The dream of his life is realized, and yet he is disappointed. The whole world is at his feet, and yet he is not satisfied! No; for the same newspaper in which he read that he had won a distinguished place in the history of his country, contained also the simple announcement of a marriage in a quiet country church. The bridegroom was a clergyman, and had a living in the extreme North of England. The bride's name was Mary-a common name enough, but few, if any, knew that this particular "Mary" had been the little friend and confidant of the popular Prime Minister when he was only an awkward youth of twenty, and that until he read the announcement of her marriage he had not known how closely, side by side with his ambition, had grown the hope that she would one day share with him the honours he would win. * "It is beautiful! perfect! Oh, I am so very, very, very happy!" And a lovely girl-for youth and health stamped upon a sweet, innocent face, must be lovely-clasped her hands and waltzed in delight round and round a sofa upon which a maid had just set out a new balldress. It was white and soft as a snow-drift, with a delicate blush-rose peeping here and there among its folds. "Oh, I wish night would come fast, and that we were really at the ball! Will it ever, ever come?" Thus it is with youth; the flying wheels of Time move all too slowly for its panting heart, the landscape round it glows with "the light that never was on sea or land." Surely, youth says, it will never change! The bright hopes of to-day will be the fond memories of tomorrow, and the distant future gleams through such a glorious base of sunshine and gladness that the young eyes, strong as they are, turn away dazzled from contemplation. It has been said that "we are near waking when we dream that we dream." I do not think it so with youth; it rarely knows it has been dreaming until it is broad awake. Night came at last, the clouds of white crape were put on, and the lovely eyes of the wearer sparkled with pardonable vanity as they wandered over the faultless dress, and glanced, half-slyly, at the sweet reflection in the mirror. And then the ball-room was reached, and surely she will be happy now. But, oh! how fast flew the hours of that festive night! it was over ere it seemed half begun. The last waltz was played; the tired musicians left the orchestra, the not less tired chaperones began to yawn without putting up their fans, and wrapped their shawls about them; the wheels of many carriages rattled over the pavement of the quiet streets, and the ball was over! Half-angry at being obliged to undergo the trouble of undressing, the same young girl stood again before her mirror; the flush upon her cheeks and the flowers in her bouquet had faded together; she flung the latter away, with a sigh. What was the matter? She had been the belle of the ball-room; the pleasure of her hand for the dance had been begged by many more partners, than she had had time to gratify; at every turn murmurs of admiration met her ears; and yet she was not satisfied, the chill of disappointment was creeping over all. The eyes, whose approbation she cared to win, whose admiration she coveted, had scarcely glanced at her: the only voice she cared to hear had not addressed a dozen words to her throughout the night. The reaction told her how much she had expected. But the depression of a young heart if keen is transient: she was soon sleeping soundly; who could tell what to-morrow might have in store? to look forward to "to-morrow"? I do not I wonder at what period of our lives we cease mean the precise to-morrow which will follow to-day in its natural order, but the vague tomorrow, which is all the more alluring from its about the most resigned and contented among uncertainty. There is a degree of restlessness us, which finds relief in thus looking forward think the feeling should be encouraged; for, into the dim perspective of what may be; and I even if at first we keep our eyes, as it were, running along the ground, a day will come, please God, when we shall raise them with humble faith and trustful love to the only Hope that will not deceive. We constantly meet people who tell us that life has nothing more in store for them--that "The future seems barr'd By a dead hope, o'er which they must tread To attain it." This may be true, but is it right? When the leaders of a forlorn hope fall dead, do not their comrades spring over their bleeding bodies to scale that rampart, upon the ruin of which the fate of a nation hangs? So should it be with us a hope which was, at best, perhaps both wrong and foolish, falls dead; then we should at once boldly and fearlessly tread over its shattered corpse, to meet the new hope which we may be certain is approaching. I know romance, that beautiful image, with its rosy lights and its shadows, which are but fleecy clouds, would teach a different lesson; but what would common sense say? What have I said? Common sense! Who listens to We all have an incommon sense, I wonder? tense respect for the thing, just as we have for the family doctor; but we do not like it, and whenever we build an airy castle, and ask our moral and intellectual guides to an tainment therein, Common-sense will not get a card of invitation. enter Pah! her clothes have an earthy smell, and they are cut after an old and absurd pattern. What affinity could there be between her and pretty Miss Self-will, in her untidy and torn gown; or between her and dainty, petulant, pouting Madame Caprice, who fairly bewitches us by her unequalled power of appearing to advantage in every mood? Now smiles, now tears, she is charming in all. And does she not always try to frown down the wild flights of our old and valued friend Imagination? And as to Romance, that beautiful first-born of Imagination, she says she was present at its birth, and did her best-cruel old wretch !-to strangle it, but that the mother caught up the lovely infant, | more forcible than those I have mentioned will and soared far, far out of her sight. And then I have seen her myself positively unkind and very rude to that enfant terrible, young Love! He is sometimes rather intrusive, I must admit, very much given to appear when he is not wanted, and very hard to keep silent when you want to think about other things; but Common-sense shows him no mercy. I have heard her tell him that he does more mischief in the world than she will ever be able to find remedies for--and I believe her. And I have seen her more than once turn him out and shut the door in his face; but the wild imp invariably ran round and climbed in at the window! Poor Common-sense has been so ill-treated, you see, by the world, that she is old before her time, and not very light of foot. Ab, well! we must not be hard upon her, for she means well; and good intentions, although not everything, are of some value; besides, I should be sorry to live myself, or to teach others to guide their lives, by the dictates of Romance. I would certainly invite Common-sense to pay me a long visit, and I would give the excellent old woman my best bed-room; but I would also, even at the risk of mortally offending her, ask Romance to look on me now-and-then, just to give a grace, an ornament, and a perfume to my life, as the flowers I gather in my garden give a grace, an ornament, and a perfume to my drawing-room. We sometimes see a steady, middle-aged man lay aside the dignity of his years, and play forfeits, or build card-houses with a group of happy children; so may we escape now and then from the excellent, but rather tiresome companionship of Common-sense, and glide away with Romance into the shadow-land of Fancy, and, forgetting that we have grown old and steady once more try our skill at building a castle in the air! But how very far I have wandered from hope, and looking forward, and all that; and of course I have forgotten many (excellent?) remarks I intended to make on the subject. I shall merely add now that I do not believe hope ever really dies out with any of us; it is only, as of old, in Pandora's box, buried alive-and we (wisely or foolishly according to circumstances) let in a little air now and then, which keeps it from dying. We are like children, who, having caught a bird in their rambles, carry it home in a basket, to kill it with either cruelty or kindness as the case may be; but they are not contented without raising the lid of the basket every five minutes, just to see how the little prisoner is getting on. It watches its opportunity, and, suddenly with a bold dash, makes its escape and flies joyfully away. So with us: we have not the heart to indulge in our hope, or to smother it outright at once, but go on peeping at it until it suddenly escapes like the bird, and soars far above our control into the clouds. To my thoughtful readers many examples far occur of anticipations which have ended in disappointment--none the less bitter because we will not acknowledge that it is disappointmentof hopes which died out, never to be revived; but, by way of contrast (if from no higher and better motive), I would remind them of an anticipation which must ever fall short of the glorious reality-of a hope which, if it exists at all, can never be utterly extinguished-can never fail, but will keep, as ever, looking onward and upward to that blessed home where all tears shall be wiped from our eyes. Yes, that is a hope worth cherishing-a home worth winning-a home which, if we do struggle for and reach at last, we shall not look around us to say, with a sigh of disappointment, "Yes, I am here; my object is attained, and yet I am not satisfied." PHANTOM S. BY ADA TREVANION. When I arose, and silently Passed out into the night, I heard the streamlet singing clear, The faint breath of the waning year The Autumn earth was slumb'ring deep, As the sick dream of health, in sleep I saw the ancient blackthorns three; Untouched by the moon's smile. A phantom palfry ever near I reached the cross of stone; "It would be very lonely here At night, for one alone:" So said a voice where dark trees archA voice remembered well; A shower of leaves from beech and larch Upon my pathway fell. A phantom face smiled back on me, I knew 'twas vain, but franticly MR. HARLEY'S PASSENGER. BY MARION HARLAND. "You will be home by sunset, will you not?" asked Mrs. Harley of her husband, as she followed him to the door one bright sharp morning in mid-winter. "I shall try to return before dark; but if I am detained later, you must not be uneasy. It will be moonlight, and, with this snow on the ground, as bright as day." "You will have a charming jaunt! I wish I could go with you!" said the wife, drawing in a deep breath of the pure cold air, and shielding her eyes from the blinding radiance of the snow, that enwrapped hill and dale in a covering of glittering white, several feet in depth. Why don't you? there is room for you, and I should be charmed to have your company. Come!" "Tempter!" laughed Mrs. Harley, shaking her head. "What would baby say to my desertion? and how would house affairs go on without my presence? No; you must be content with Johnny as my representative for this once, and I will try to be satisfied within doors. Perhaps I may go next time." Mr. Harley was examining the harness; adjusting here a buckle, there a strap, and concluded by patting the neck of the fine animal attached to the dogcart. "I like to be sure that all is right, before I set out. A ride of forty miles through the heart of the Peak requires stanch gear and a trusty horse." "You have both!" observed the wife. "Come, Johnny: papa is ready to lift you in." The boy, a merry-eyed, rosy fellow of seven, put up his lips for a farewell kiss, and sprang into the vehicle without assistance. "We have grown independent, you perceive," said his father, smiling proudly as the urchin established himself upon the seat, and made a great parade of tucking the rug about him. "As becomes a young gentleman who accompanies his father in his business excursions!" replied Mrs. Harley. "Good-bye, dear!" in response to her husband's kiss. "Take care of yourself, and come back early if you can. Johnny, be a good boy, and don't trouble papa!" The horse sprang forward at the word of command, and the vehicle rolled fleetly down the road. Mrs. Harley was just closing the door, when she heard the sound of wheels coming nearer instead of growing fainter in the dis tance: "My whip, if you please!" called her husband, as she ran out to inquire the cause of the return. "I left it in the hall." "I thought Red Rover never needed it!" answered Mrs, Harley, handing him the forgotten article. "He never has; but that is no guarantee that he never will be the better for a touch of the lash. No wise driver sets out upon a journey without his whip. Good-bye again !" How often, during the day, did the picture of the travellers, as they appeared at that moment, recur to the mind of the fond woman they left behind! Her husband's tall figure, enveloped in his shaggy great coat; his low hat shading his kind, clear eyes, and the strongly-marked features she thought so handsome, and the boy's happy face smiling at her over the mountain of shawls and rugs in which his careful parent had wrapped him! "It's bad luck to turn back, and master oughter have knowed it!" grumbled old Sally, one of the fast-diminishing class of faithful servants, who had lived in the Harley family when the present master was born, and knew herself to be a privileged character. "If he had jest made a cross whar he turned round, and spit onto it, all would have been right!" Mrs. Harley smiled, without contradicting the croaker, and went up to her room to see if her babe were still sleeping. The first object that met her eyes upon entering the chamber was a pair of pistols lying in an open leathern case upon the bureau. Really, Fred's humour is a forgetful one, to-day," she exclaimed, taking up one of the weapons. "I never knew him to leave these before, when there was any chance of his being benighted upon the road. Perhaps he did not take them because he was so sure of returning by daylight." "Is the road really dangerous?" inquired her sister, who sat by the cradle; "or does he carry them as a matter of form ?" "As he does his whip, I fancy-from principle!" returned Mrs. Harley. "The Dale has a bad reputation, founded, I believe, upon the legend that a pedlar who was murdered there twenty or thirty years since. It is a dreary and desolate route, not a human habitation being visible for six miles, and a forest of evergreens lining the road on one side; but Fred has traversed it upon an average once a week for the last dozen years, and has never seen anything more frightful than his own shadow. It is perfectly safe during the day, being the main road to B, and continually travelled by farm-waggons, and carts from the mines." Frederick Harley had succeeded, by inheritance, to a valuable farm in the neighbourhood-a fine, commodious homestead, and, as was soon discovered, by means of his |