LINES AMONG THE LEAVES, BY S. G. PHILIPS. Have ye heard the west wind singing, where the summer trees are singing; Have ye counted o'er the many times it knows? For the wide winged spirit rangeth and its balad metre changeth As it goes. A plaintive wail it maketh when the willow trees it shaketh, And the branches, low and slender, bend to list the strain so tender Another tale is telling, where the clustered elm is swelling, With dancing joy, that seems to laugh outright; And the leaves all bright and clapping, sound like human fingers snapping With delight. The fitful key-note shifteth where the heavy oak up-lifteth, A diadem of acorns broad and high; And it chants with muffled roaring, like an eagle's wings in soaring, To the sky. Now the breeze is freshly wending where the gloomy yew is bending, And it gives a mournful whistle which reminds us of the missal Another lay it giveth where the spiral poplar liveth, And it sings with hissing treble-like the foam upon the pebble A varied theme it utters where the glossy date-leaf flutters, A loud and lightsome chant it yieldeth there; And the quiet, list'ning dreamer, may believe that many a streamer It is sad and dreary hearing where the giant pine is rearing, His lonely head, like hearse-plume waved about; And it lurketh melancholy, where the thick and sombre holly Bristles out. It murmurs soft and mellow midst the light laburnum's yellow, And deeper is its tiding, as it hurries, swiftly gliding Through the ash. A roundelay of pleasure does it keep in merry measure, As tho a band of fairies were engaged in Mab's vagaries Oh! a bard of many breathings is Wind in Sylvan wreathings, O'er mountain tops and thrö the woodland groves, Now fifing and now drumming, now howling and now hummingAs it roves. Oh are not human bosoms like these things of leaves and blossoms Where hallowed whispers come to cheer and rouse ? Is there no mystic stirring in our hearts, like sweet wind whirring In the boughs? Through that wind a strange tone waketh in every home it maketh, And the maple tree responds not as the larch, Yet Harmony is playing round all the green arms swaying 'Neath Heaven's arch. Oh what can be the teaching of these forest voices preaching? "TIS THAT A BROTHER'S CREED, THOUGH NOT AS MINE, MAY BLEND ABOUT GOD'S ALTAR, AND HELP TO SWELL THE PSALTER THAT'S DIVINE. RECOLLECTIONS OF THE HOSPITALS. By J. BAXTER LANGLEY, Member of the Royal College of Surgeons, &c. &c. CHAP. L "Hush! hush!" said the nurse in a low voice; "do not stir yet, for fear he should awake; and-I could not bear to hear him rave again in that dreadful way." We waited a few moments and watched the face of tho invalid sleeper, as he gradually sunk from the delirium of excited weakness to the placidity of deep repose. God," said I, "at last he sleeps and seems to be at ease. How did he pass the night, Nurse ?" Thank "As usual; wandering in his mind, and sometimes speechifying so loud as to disturb all the other patients in the room. No. 14 has applied to be removed to the next ward on that account, Sir." "What time did you administer the opiate draught?" "He cursed and swore and refused to take it, Sir; he said that he believed I was an evil spirit, and that I was going to give him poison." 66 "I will administer it myself to-night," said I, turning along the passage. The nurse called after me, that she hoped I should not be offended if she said she was glad of it, for she believed she had never been frightened till No. 10 frightened her, and she thought if ever a man was possessed with a devil he was. The subject of this conversation, distinguished by Mrs. Anne Ogle, the nurse, as "No. 10," was a tall young man, about 22 years of age, with black curly hair, dark whiskers and moustache. His features were faultlessly classic but capable of great expression, and his dark eye added by its restlessness to the strange beauty of his face. Though he lay in the ward of a charitable institution, and had been brought thither in a state almost of starvation, his lot had not always been among the poor and needy. For the following details of his sad history I am indebted to his diary, which is still in my possession His mother, when very young, had been flattered and seduced by a nobleman of Scotland, who had, after two years' intimacy, forsaken her, having, however, settled a small pension, upon her on condition she never troubled him further. And so her faith in humanity was shaken; and as her child grew up it was not unnatural that she should have impressed upon his opening intellect the cold doctrines of her unbelief in the goodness af Mankind. She, however, sought comfort in the forms of religion, and tried to point her child to objects worthy of his trust and belief in the spheres of thought beyond the temporal scenes around her. One doctrine-belief, was taught at prayer night and morning-the other-distrust, was inculcated every hour by example as well as precept and young Arthur from a child was a sceptic. Yet he knew his catechism well and the precepts of the Scriptures he had learnt by heart. These were impressed upon his memory at the Sunday School, where, by his manifestations of intelfect, he attracted the notice of the Rector, who took his education under his own especial direction. Thus was his childhood. His boyhood came prematurely upon him and developed the traits of a determined and haughty character, inseparably combined with which was that dark unbelief which had been unwittingly instilled into him by his mother, and which was traceable in each of the petty game-dealings which he transacted in the play-ground with his fellows. Endowed with a mind of extraordinary capacity and strength, his pride stimulated him to use the powers of which he was conscious and he soon stood apart from his school-mates proudly alone. About this period Arthur Dougal, being then about sixteen years of age, formed a boyish attachment with the daughter of his patron. She was older than her youthful Corydon, but was not unpleased to receive his attentions and the simple poetry ho composed for her. In after life, speaking of that attachment, he said, "She could have saved me--for she could have taught me to confide :-but she trifled with me-deceived me--and so faith left me for ever." That event seems to have confirmed his character for the rest of his life and to have dammed up the streams of kindly generosity and of tender sympathies, which however, at some moments, in spite of his pride, swelled up from his heart and overflowed the barriers. In the moment of his vexation and disappointment-his mother, hinting at the circumstance of his ignoble birth, told him that that VOL. 10-No. 2-N. was the reason of Dora's scorn far him. "Was it my fault?" he cried in a paroxysm of rage. His mother's head was drooped upon her heaving breast-and no answer came. "I will bear this mystery no longer. Whose fault was it? Where is my father?" No answer. "Mother!" he cried, the knowledge for myself! have resolved." 66 answer me-for I will know-answer me before I seize You do not answer me. One moment,- then-I Leaving his mother senseless in the chair he rushed up stairs to a secretaire, in his mother's bed-room, which he knew contained papers, &c. of a private nature. It was locked-but that did not check his progress-it was wrenched open in a moment. There lay the papers he sought. The first which met his eye was a letter, which lay open and bore evidences of having been recently read :-It was as follows: "DEAR SUSAN, 66 Castle, June 18, 1814, "I have got the cottage ready for you. Here, my dove! we will live unseen by the cold world. I rely upon your promise to leave Inverness on Saturday-oh happy day for me! I know, my love, how great a sacrifice you make for me the devotion of my life to you will repay you. The carrriage shall be at the turnpike at 10. Till then, my dearest, sweetest Susan-Farewell. By its side, soiled and tear-spotted, was another letter in a different hand. "To Miss Susan Dougal. "Lord * *** desires me to say that he has rceived your letter to his son, who is on the eve of marriage, and who cannot hold any further communication with you. His lordship is surprised that you are not satisfied with the pecuniary arrangements which have been made by Viscount **** and directs me to say that should you attempt any further communication with the Viscount, or continue to annoy him, the income which has been settled upou you will be withdrawn at once. His lordship considers that allowance sufficient to educate the child, and refuses to make any further provision for it. r "Your obedient Servant, Castle, October, 1818. "RALPH H ** For the first moment Arthur's feelings were -in the next his rage became ascendant and he would seek his father out! He knew him now. was money in a drawer and with it he would go. that one idea rushed out of the house. With 66 Secretary to Lord * The sequel may be briefly told. difficulty he travelled from the village where his mother lived to He sought his lordly father's presence and was spurned from his gate by hirelings. Then, with feeelings of deliberate vengeance, he waited on from day to day for opportunity to curse that father and make him the object of scorn and contumely, as poor Arthur felt he himself had been. Fortunately for the Viscount the father and son did not meet, or murder had been done perchance. Still Arthur waited on-till at length the little money he had brought with him was nearly spent, and he was compelled to consider some means to obtain a fresh supply. He had become acquainted with some actors, who were then performing at a temporary theatre in the place, and upon several occasions went upon the boards in unimportant characters, at the request of his acquaintances. The manager saw talent in the youth and offered him a a small salary per week which he accepted. After remaining a few weeks he learned that Viscount **** was gone abroad and he then returned to his native village. It required some courage to enter the well-known fields, and the recollection of the way in which he had left his mother without a word of Farewell now seeemed so harsh and criminal, that the blush of shame rose upon his cheek when he thought of meeting her. He approached the church-he saw the house where Dora lived-and then he shrunk into himself when he remembered the shame of his birth. He loitered in the outskirts of the hamlet till the evening and it was dark, when he stole to his mother's cottage. The door was fastened;-no light was to be seen;-the garden appeared neglected the flag-stone at the door-way was unwashed, and every thing bore evidence of negleet, where previously all was care and attention. Each object about the place seemed to reproach him; and Arthur, overcome by sorrow and undefined dread, at last sunk down upon the steps and burst into tears- He sat there long -reviewing the past and resolving for the future. Those tears, drops from the fountain of forgiveness, were sweet and hallowing-washing away all sense of wrong, and giving a spring freshness to hopes which, in that trying moment, came to save him from recklessness. In the past he thought only of his mother's tearful care and suffering love he remembered what she had done for him-and in the future she was the centre of his plans-to secure her happiness should be his single aim. Night passed on. Arthur sat on the door-step waiting his mother-but she came not, Morning dawned but no one stirred within the house. Had his mother ceased to ply her spinning wheel? Had he deprived her, by his rash departure, of all object of exertion? His ponderings led to no satisfactory conclusion, and uncertainty became each moment more distressing and unsupportable. The early labourers passed the garden gate and all the business-life of day came on. Arthur remained loitering about the house till the sun was high when he was recognised by a quondam friend, from whom he learned that his mother had died the week after he had left her. Her heart had been broken. Stung with burning agony he wandered about. scarce knowing whither he went, till his footsteps trod the grave-yard. Around a grave, the earth of which was newly turned, were scattered some faded wild-flowers of the season-simple tokens of that regard and affection which constitutes the poetry of death. "That cannot be her grave"-he said musingly-" for none knew or cared for her." "Some public benefactor or Sunday School teacher, or some pretty child is buried there," thought Arthur has he approached. At the head of the grave was a low stone, newly carved, and on it was engraven his mother's name, with the date of her death. He sunk down upon the earth and, carried away by the passion of the moment, called upon her to come back again, if only to forgive him-and when he heard no answer to his hopeless and insane prayer-the stillness of despair came over his soul and, Cain-marked, he arose-denied Providence, and cursed his Maker. His after-life I will only sketch. He went upon the stage, where he would have attained a high reputation, but for the irregularities of his life. He might have lived comfortably upon the income which had supported his mother, and which would have been continued to himself after her death, had he not determined to assume the name of his "noble" father, and to announce himself upon all occasions as "the son of the Earl of- -." One hundred a year was guaranteed to him for life, on condition he would renounce the family name and use only that of Arthur Dougal-but this he refused to do. Five years after his mother's death Arthur Murray (for that name will serve the purposes of my narrative) was in York, where he was the admired of all admirers. His conversation was brilliant, witty, and amusing, and nearly every day found him at the mess-table of the officers of the regiment which was stationed in that city. How he then lived I never learnt, but the impressioni I formed of him at the time was that he was a gentleman possessed of a considerable income. During several years at invervals, comet-like, did Murray cross my path when I least expected him. No one knew whence he came or whither he went-but always the same witty and boisterously gay companion he was always welcomed-by strangers as a choice spirit and by old acquaintances as an amusing mystery, Upon one occasion a circumstance occurred which gave me a strong impression of the character of this extraordinary man. Murray having called upon me one afternoon told me, in his good-natured way, that he should be glad if I would let him make my lodgings his home for a day or two. I readily assented, but told him that on that evening I was going out to a tea-party. "Where?" said Murray. "To the Rev. Mr. -'s, the Unitarian minister," I replied. "Some philosophical people meet this evening." "Ah!" said he, "just the thing I want-I am quite tired of purely literary matters-Classics I have worn threadbare-and the periodical literature is exhausted till next month. I'll go with you, if you have no objection. My friend, you know," he said, assuming the attitude of a person introducing another. "Well-I don't know"-I hesitated, |