carefully selected for his purpose, and his brilliant eyes aided his well-taught voice in directing each passionate burst, or melting poem, to the blushing girl. Or he required some work done, and nobody must do it but Lucy, and she must come down to be under his eyes all the time she was occupied in its performance, which was generally a lengthy period, for it had to be unpicked and done again in a dozen different ways before he was satisfied. And meanwhile he sang, or played on the flute, or, if his mother quitted the apartment, seized the opportunity to breathe into the young girl's ears honied words of adulation, mingled with kindness. And did not Mrs. Cavendish perceive what was going on? She viewed it through the glasses of her own feelings, as most of us look upon the actions of others; she deemed her son too much imbued with proper pride to waste a thought on the girl; she regarded Lucy as in duty bound to wait upon his commands as upon her own; and as for love, if she had ever known what that passion is, she had long outlived all memory of it, or been too long encased in pride to believe in its existence. To Lucy a new and beautiful world seemed to open, and Henry Cavendish was the bright being who unbarred its portals to her, who bade her enter and taste of its pleasures. All the romantic tales she had ever read recurred to memory, she was the heroine of them; how many noble youths had wedded cottage maidens! and now was that drama to be acted over again. Young Cavendish was no unpractised wooer, but one of those male butterflies who flutter on from flower to flower, toying awhile with each, then quitting it for another and fresher one. He knew how to play the impassioned yet frank-hearted lover, had studied female hearts until their very springs of action were scarcely a mystery to him, for with the coolness of an anatomist he had probed and traced out each feeling to its source, aye, and prided himself upon his skill. He was a worthy son of his mother, although he, in his courtesy and gentleness, seemed so unlike her. But be he what he may, he was the first man who ever taught Lucy to love-he came upon her like the summer's sun, vivifying everything with its beams, and bursting the icy fetters of cold and winter; she was scorned, but his adoration raised her above contumely; she was shunned and annoyed, but the thought that he loved her was as a shield to turn aside each dart of malice; it surrounded all things with the halo of its beauty, smoothed every care, lightened every task, and made her heart so full of joy and happiness, that she could have sung and danced in very glee. Revelling amidst the flowers which had so suddenly sprung up in her pathway, she saw not the precipice on the edge of which they grew. Christmas had passed away; Henry Cavendish had passed with it from Ellcombe Park; business of importance, he told Lucy, "tore him reluctant from her side." Entre nous, reader, he wanted to enjoy a week's shooting at the seat of a friend before the season ended. Again all became dull and cold, outwardly at least; but there was a warmth and light in Lucy's heart which bade defiance to the externals. He had vowed that he loved her, and she read her own heart too well to doubt him; for where doubt commences, perfect love ceases. It is a mistaken notion to deem that jealousy and doubt are the attendants of love. Its pure flame would be suffocated in such foul vapours! They may wait on passion, nay they do, but on love never. Robert Norris was appointed lodge-keeper and ranger to Lady Inson, and shortly afterwards bore home his young bride, his longbeloved Ella. They would have had Lucy to live with them; and as she looked upon their pretty home, and stood clasped in the embrace of her happy sister, she longed to come. But then flashed back the memory of his parting words, "You'll bear with my mother, Lucy, for my sake, and let me find you here on my return." And she had promised, and each hour in the day testified the strength of her love, by her endurance of that cold chain of servitude, while a home and the welcome of two affectionate hearts awaited her with her sister. It was his mother, and she ought to bear with her, and tend her, she reasoned. Alas! what we think the best and most hallowed feelings of our nature, do but too often border on our greatest weaknesses! Happy, doubly happy, are those who can control the impulses of feeling by the sober dictates of reason and the holy spell of religion. Time fled on; but to Lucy his pinions were leaden. She watched daily, hourly, for his promised return, and dreamt not that the gayest of all the gay throng of a London season was Henry Cavendish; and that she was forgotten amid the fair belles of fashion, the fascinating new danseuse, and the enchanting prima-donna, whom he followed to her native land. A second time September was come, with its bright glowing tints; the world of fashion was deserted. It was too early for the watering-places, and, feeling weary and out of sorts, he resolved to recruit a little at Ellcombe. As the travellingcarriage whirled up the park, he saw Lucy walking slowly along a side-path: attracted by the sound of wheels, she had paused to gaze, and, as she beheld who it was, a rich bloom mounted to her very temples, her eyes flashed with a radiant light, and involuntarily she started towards the carriage, then paused with sudden bashfulness. Blasé as Cavendish was, he did not look upon this beautiful guileless girl with utter indifference; stopping the carriage, he sprang out, and, desiring that they would drive into the stable-yard, dismissed the servantswho failed not to talk of what they had seenand hastened to join Lucy Merton in her walk. Ella was not long before she heard the whispers and gossiping which the servants' account of their master's proceedings on the day of his return set on foot, and being tied to home by a mother's duties, she wrote earnestly, warningly, imploringly to her sister, who had long been a riddle to her. No answer came; perhaps the letter was never received, for the servants were not too careful about those things. Perhaps, wrapped in her own imaginary happiness, Lucy shut her eyes and ears to all warning, and, like the foolish moth, fluttered around the dazzling flame until powerless to escape from its heat. There are to all of us moments when every unpleasant reality is obliterated by the intense but brief joys of an hour, and such moments are very delicious; so it was with her while she listened to him. in the parks, and in all other places of fashionable resort, and he was ever her most devoted admirer. Just before the close of the season he proposed, and was accepted; but Sir Thomas Mortimer required that the wedding should not be performed until the bride was of age. Lady Inson, Helen's elder sister, had promoted this match with all her skill, and exulted over her success in having secured for her sister so excellent a parti; a man so well connected, of such unquestionable fashion, and of excellent property, and moreover a near neighbour. Two It was a bitter January night, when a faint knock was heard at Ella's door. Robert Norris On her return to her country-seat, the first opened it, and did not at first recognize in the news whispered into her ear by her favourite drooping form before him his lovely sister-in-maid was the history of Lucy Merton. law. Lucy strove to speak, but the words died things in it annoyed Lady Inson: firstly, that upon her lips; and she would have sunk but for the "audacious hussy" should have dared to his sustaining arm. Ella flew at her husband's name Mr. Cavendish as her seducer; and call from the bed-side of her last born; the sccondly, that any dependants of hers should wanderer was soon seated by the fire, but she dare to harbour one who had been cast off in could not meet their looks of love; she shrank disgrace by Mrs. Cavendish-one whom that from their words of affection: the lovely, once lady had so just a right to discard. Accordingly innocent, Lucy Merton had swelled the list of a message was despatched to Robert Norris, the roue's victims. Her enemies-the house-ordering him to turn out his present guest and keeper and butler, who had marked each act of the drama-hastened to bring about the denouement as soon as their young master was gone, and the cold, stern Mrs. Cavendish cast the girl off, as one might a reptile; had her thrust from her house, and flew into a paroxysm of rage when Lucy in faltering accents named Mr. Cavendish, and would have told his vows-his solemn promise to make her his. her child, or quit her ladyship's service. Vain were the respectful remonstrances of the poor man, the tearful entreaties of his wife, Lady Inson was inexorable. "I will go," cried poor Lucy; "I have wrought you misery enough, my sister, and will not be the means of depriving you and your children of a home and daily bread." "Oh, Lucy, whither can you go, so weak, and with that young infant? And yet, my children! Forgive me, Lucy; forgive my momentary self 66 Come, we all need rest," exclaimed Robert, dashing the tears from his eyes; "to-morrow will be soon enough to think of parting." Lucy helped her sister to put the little ones to bed, and lingering behind knelt down and kissed each rosy mouth. Long and tearful was the embrace in which she held her sister ere they retired to rest. The next morning she and her babe were gone. Ella wept over her sister: she knew not how to chide. Robert cursed the seducer, in words not loud but deep. The deceived and penitentishness!" girl mourned her fault with heartfelt contrition; "It is I should pray for forgiveness; my sin now that the mists had passed from before her has brought trouble on you, dearest Ella! I eyes, she saw the full extent of her mad folly; have been very weak and wicked. Pray for me, but yet she could not believe that he had heart-sister; forgive and pray for me." lessly forsaken her. "He will return so soon as my letter reaches him; I know he will," was her reply to her irritated brother-in-law. But he came not! Lucy was a mother; the finger of scorn pointed at her; old companions shunned her; the world closed its gates against her-for to fallen woman there is no return. Every hand is thrust forth to cast her back if she should seek to redeem her error; every face is averted; every respectable employment closed to her-| she must sink lower and lower into the quagmire of sin; and the world deems it unpardonable to extend the slightest twig at which she may grasp to save herself. And how deals it with the man? Is he not received apparently as well as ever? Does any one think of blaming him, unless it may be some extra-prudish people, and they are laughed at. Were moral retribution more evenly, more justly distributed between the sexes, the amount of sin would be materially diminished. Meanwhile, Henry Cavendish met Helen Mortimer in town. It was her first season, and her freshness and beauty captivated him; besides she was an heiress, and her estates bordered upon his; therefore it would be an excellent match. They met at balls, fêtes, fancy-fairs Lady Inson was satisfied to hear this; her conduct in this matter was intended to propitiate Mrs. Cavendish. Ella was inconsolable; Robert sought in vain for any trace of his sister-in-law, but could find none until two days afterwards, when the bodies of Lucy Merton and her babe were found in the mill-stream at S- —. It was conjectured that while crossing the Weir her foot had slipped; for one arm fondly clasped the infant, while the other still retained the little bundle she had taken with her; but there were not wanting those who believed that in a fit of despair the unfortunate girl had sought oblivion for all her woes in that stream. May Heaven,, in its mercy, forgive her! Let only those among us who are without blame venture to judge her, or any other; for we cannot see into the depths of each other's hearts, or appreciate the extent of another's trials, sufferings, and temptations. We may be strong, simply because our strength has never been tested-virtuous, because vice has offered no allurements sufficiently tempting; patient and enduring, because our so-called trials may have been mere trifles; the day may come when all the virtues we so confidently boast of will be severely tested. Meanwhile, let us show that mercy to others which we would crave for ourselves; which even the best and purest among us will need from Heaven! At the inquest the whole history of Lucy Merton was once more brought forward; and Lady Inson, angered by some of the expressions of Robert Norris, dismissed him from her service; congratulating herself that Helen and her father were now in Paris, and that all these rumours and unpleasantnesses would have died away before their return, for she feared the effect of them on the pure mind of her sister, and the "old-fashioned notions" of her father; both of whom might have been simple enough to consider that the parts acted by Henry Cavendish, and even by herself, were not so entirely free from blame." Misfortune seemed not yet tired of aiming her shafts at the unfortunate family; Robert had scarcely obtained employment, before he fell from a hay-rick, and broke his leg; the children were too young and delicate to admit of Ella's leaving them to obtain work, and there was little she could do, poor thing! for so many trials following one upon the other had crushed her heart and spirit. For her children's sake she strove to bear up, in gratitude to her consoling friends; and to cheer her husband, she endeavoured to smile; but the effort was vain! death had marked her for his own. I will not say that there was not something of malice prepense in the arrangements which fixed the funeral of Ella for the same day as the bridal of Henry Cavendish; and the clergyman-the same whose wife had so loved Ella-must have been a little concerned. Certain it is, that all the villagers sympathized with their companions; Lucy's errors were buried in her grave, and she was now only remembered as their schoolfellow and playmate; while Ella was mourned as a sister and daughter by old and young. Reader, I have done. Fain would I tell you the fate of Henry Cavendish's fair bride, of Robert Norris and his orphans; but I know it not. My health was re-established, my leave of absence from home and its duties expired, and I quitted S-, perhaps never again to see its rural beauties, or hear any of the chronicles of its inhabitants. LINES. The sun is up, and nature throws And meadows bloom in richest green. The fragrant dews of night are gone, And beauteous shines the smiling morn ; Its breath hath waked each brightened flower, That seemed, at night, all hushed and still, When earth and sky are almost kin, 'Tis but an arrow's passing flight, - J. R. W. LOMAS. THE PARSON'S DAUGHTER JANE. AIR "Lullabullero," in the Beggar's Opera; "The Modes of the Court.-In Ireland, "The Protestant Boys." Wit, beauty, and spirit, eyes beaming with brain, She well knew that her beauty must wane like the Were the gifts of the Parson's Daughter Jane. moon, But that wit's a bright sun, and not yet was its June. Three Warriors bold, who had conquered in Spain, offence 'Twas a sorry look out-little else than a chain"Shove off!" said the Parson's Daughter Jane. A Merchant, when counting his coffers of gain, Counted much on the Parson's Daughter Jane. ""Tis a safe speculation," he's heard to declare, "For her sons should be clever, her daughters be fair." But such multiplication might be her vexation, The "rule of proportion was her calculation. On his unit and ten he but reckoned in vain"Carry nought!" said the Parson's Daughter Jane. A Farmer, proposing for acres of grain, A Gambler, who lived by his ways and his means, 66 you my bride!" "Twere a pity to part them, so be 'Twas the knave that he played-that she saw very plain "You've lost the odd trick!" said the Parson's Jane. A Dandy, with stays his slight waist to restrain, Bobbed his chin to the Parson's Daughter Jane. His quintessence of jessamy asked her to share, And advised her to let her fair shoulders go bare. "'Midst the nice things he buys, he'll esteem her a prize, And with wife as with cravat have luck in his ties." Fashion's luckiest tie should be Hymen's silk chain." "Tie-my shoe!" said the Parson's Daughter Jane. An M.P. with petitions his fortune to drain, Yet a Bill for Short Commons begged leave to bring in. But the motion was negatived-so was the swain"Not content!" said the Parson's Daughter Jane. Her father and mother began to complain, What are you to do? We've no portion for you— That your face is your fortune,' alas! is too trueSo make hay while sun shines, for there's danger of rain!" "Not with rakes !" said the Parson's Daughter Jane. Wit, beauty, and spirit-eyes beaming with brainWere the gifts of the Parson's Daughter Jane. And she knew that her beauty must wane like the moon, But that wit's a bright sun, and scarce yet was its June. Shall she marry for pelf? Better lie on the shelf! Better eat the brown bread she could earn for herself! So not one of those danglers who bowed in her train, Had a chance of the Parson's Daughter Jane. But a Book-learned Man, who could live by his brain, Had studied the Parson's Daughter Jane. He saw she was lovely, he knew she was good, Her true heart could approve his good sense and his love; And a little suffices, when looking above. So the book-learned man, who could live by his brain, Was the match for the Parson's Daughter Jane. *A specially admired breed of sheep. THE DREAMS OF THE HEART. BY MRS. ABDY. Awaken, young dreamer-the world lies before thee, Yet thy path is still peopled with phantoms of gladness, Thou art wrapt, fondly wrapt, in the Dreams of the Heart! Awaken, awaken-oh! canst thou, thus blindly, Canst thou lavish thy smiles on yon mutable lover? Look round thee-the snares that beset thee, dis cover, Oh! rouse thee betimes from the Dreams of the Heart! Yet, no-may thy waking be still at a distance; And safety and strength to thy steps may impart ; But the pale beacon light that she lends thee, can never Call forth from their tomb the lost Dreams of the Heart! IN THE SUNSHINE. BY CALDER CAMPBELL. Hopeless despairers, O'er desert and plain; Having before ye No project-no goal, Look up, where o'er ye Sun-canopies roll! See ye no task to do? Labours begun ? Stay ye, till ask'd to do Duties undone ? Fie on ye, hopeless ones! Have ye no goal? "Worms for the body But what for the soul? Dig not your graves so soon, Work, and hope through the day, Margate. By the Author of "The Traduced," "The Eventful Epoch, &c." The incidents narrated in the following sketch took place prior to the formation of that excellent society, at the head of which stands, as patroness, Her Majesty the Queen Dowagerwe mean the Society for the Relief of Distressed Needlewomen. This philanthropic association must have the good wishes of all humane persons, and the last cannot evince or set forth the sincerity of those wishes better than by aiding the society's funds. Much good has been done, and it is to be hoped is still doing, through the medium of the charity in question; and, as a necessary consequence, an increasing treasury will cause the sphere of benevolence, like the ever-widening circles put into motion by a pebble cast into a lake, to be in a constant state of progression and enlargement. In the district which extends east of the Minories, famous for its colony of Jews, and not far from the busy region of St. Katherine Docks, there is a long straggling street composed of remarkably high houses; as if, however, to counterbalance the privilege of being nearer the heavens than other domiciles, these ancient houses are built so close to their opposite neighbours that the men can almost shake hands or exchange blows across the way, while thieves have been known, when hotly pursued, to have effected their escape by springing from one opened window into another, above the heads of the people perambulating far beneath. The houses are nearly all of one description, as may be surmised from the uniformity of the placards displayed in the windows. Each floor, single room, and back attic, is dedicated to the service of lodgers, the ground apartments only being reserved for the master or mistress of the establishment. The prices vary on every flat, diminishing in proportion as you ascend to the highest region, where, though the danger, in the event of fire, is the greatest, you have the advantage of being farthest removed from the noise, and the small puddles of water lying stagnant in the street; while, in some positions, you may catch a glimpse of the Thames, a breath of free air, and, in the summer, a gleam of sunshine. In one of the topmost rooms of a house in this street a girl was busily employed with her needle. She was fabricating sundry shirts of coarse blue check, such as are worn by sailors. The apartment was clean, but miserably devoid of furniture. The single table that served for her work and meals was of coarse deal; the three ricketty chairs might not sustain a greater weight than that imposed on them by the emaciated beings who are usually found in this locality. The floor had no carpet, but it was carefully washed, and sprinkled with yellow sand. Á mattrass was rolled up in a corner, and a closet, ventilated by a small window, displayed a second bed composed of bundles of straw covered by rough sacks. From this it might be inferred that the girl, labouring at her needle, was not the only occupant of the room. Seated as near to the paper-patched window as he could get, was a man about sixty years of age; his garments were worn to the last thread, yet darns, which, from their countless number and neatness, could have been accomplished by none but female hands, prevented them from falling into rags; his hair was cut neatly, being parted on the forehead, and his hands and face scrupulously clean, were not those of a common artisan: yet dull as the light was, it proved sufficient to reveal in the expressionless lines of the pallid countenance, and the vacant stare of the glassy eyes, that the mind of that man was a wreck; that the fine invisible chords, uniting the soul and the brain, were snapped; and that for him, at least in the present state of existence, the light of truth, the universe without, and the world of the affections within, existed no longer. Near the moping idiot who was the father of the fair girl, two children were at play; the old man did not seem to heed them, though the boy shot his marbles between his feet, and the little girl placed her doll upon his 'knee. His eyes were fixed on a few ears of corn, a potato and a turnip, which he turned and turned in his hands, muttering over them meaningless words. The source of the singular pleasure experienced by the unhappy man may be traced to memory; he had known better days. Mr. Melford had been a small farmer. At a short distance from the ancient village of Norwood, in Surrey, and on the left hand as you ascend the hill, you may perceive several little cottages nestling in most rural and picturesque positions; one of these had been his own, together with a garden, an orchard, and several acres of land. For many years he had enjoyed the freehold, when a distant relative, a griping miser, discovering some flaw in the deed by which he held the tenement, claimed it for his own property. A lawsuit was the consequence; the miser won his cause, and Mr. Melford was a beggar. "Misfortunes," says the old adage, never come single:" the houseless man lost his wife, and these two great calamities destroyed his reason. 66 Caroline Melford was eighteen years of age; the idea of resigning her father, whose idiotcy was of a perfectly harmless description, to a lunatic asylum, and her young brother and sister to the workhouse, was repugnant to her nature. She resolved, without hesitation, to |