were a party of recruits, with their sergeant. William was a sober man; but the evening was bitter cold, and the room was warm. William called for a mug of beer, which he drank, and was quietly warming himself by the fire, when the wily sergeant joined him. After a little desultory conversation, the sergeant proposed pledging him in a glass of punch. The night was cold; the punch was strong; and William's head was weak. Another and another glass was forced upon him; and William, wholly unaccustomed to spirits, was quickly caught in the snare. Cart and horses were forgotten; and William only awoke to find himself in His Majesty's service.

Now came the moments of despair: William was almost distracted; but despair and distraction were alike unavailing-William's fate was fixed. The regiment was on the eve of embarkation for India.

"I will buy him off, if I sell the bed from under me," cried Mary; and at that critical moment, the cottage was entered by the strange gentleman who had guided her through the mazes of the forest.

"I have heard of your distress, Mrs. Dawkins," said he, "and have come to proffer you my services."

Mary hesitated. The stranger was utterly unknown to her. He was young and handsome, and, it might be, gay: why should he, whom she had seen but casually-to whom she was altogether unknown-seek her cottage in the hour of distress? Yet his purpose must be honest, for he would aid her to recover her husband--her protector! She therefore decided on trusting him; and, gratefully thanking him for the interest he expressed, she poured forth the full tide of her grief.

Her auditor was patient and attentive, and Mary's sorrow received as much mitigation as it would admit of. Sympathy and hope sustained her; and the whole energy of her mind was turned towards the means of rescuing her beloved William.

The loan of a sum sufficient to purchase her husband's discharge was offered, and accepted; and, comparatively light of heart, Mary prepared to join her husband at Portsmouth.

Sir Robert was an old man, whose sporting days had yielded to the influence of time, and been replaced by the comforts of an easy chair by the warm fire-side; and as neither son nor nephew had been bestowed on him by Providence, he lived much alone. The days of grand battues, when the gay-plumed tenants of air were mown down like soldiers in a battle, had not yet arrived, and Sir Frederick Longley was wont to pursue his sport alone. It was in one of these solitary rambles that he first met with the Woodman's wife.

Mary lost not a moment in making her preparations for departure, to join her husband at Portsmouth, whither he had gone for embarka tion. With her baby in her arms, she walked to the highroad, to await the passing of the Portsmouth coach.

The day was clear and frosty. The sun, shining brightly out, added its cheering influence to the sun of hope within her. The infant nestled to her bosom, and she bestowed many a hearty caress on it, as she pressed it closer and closer to her.

The dull, grey light of a winter morning was breaking, as the coach drew up at the Fountain Inn, at Portsmouth. Mary, who had travelled outside, was lifted half dead from the top, and placed in a chair by the kitchen-fire. The kindhearted landlady chafed her hands and temples, and pressed her to take some warm tea; which, ere long, restored the circulation to her almost congealed blood. Her first question was for the regiment; but the answer sent the warm blood rushing in full current to her heart, and caused it to freeze there. The regiment had sailed the day before, and were far on their way down Channel, with a fair wind, and plenty of it.

We will draw a veil over the despair of the bereaved Mary.

Mary returned to her solitary home; but no longer was she the bright, blooming flower of Woodside.

The lily, bent by the passing summer storm, will raise its drooping petals and meet the returning beam of heaven with renewed beauty; the light rain-drop that rests on the rose will be dissipated by the warmth of the sun; but the violet, uprooted by the hurricane, will never recover its pristine beauty. It may linger on, it is true, still shedding perfume as it fades; but it is a sickly effort, uncheered by hope and unsustained by vitality. Thus Mary lingered on. The whole force of her mind was crushed; the whole stock of her honest joys was uprooted; for they centered in her husband. She had still duties to perform, and she would fulfil them. Her child claimed her care, and she bestowed it; but it was with a sickly feeling, which even its caresses and infantine grace were insufficient to restore to a healthy tone.

their effect, for they were mixed with reprehensions of her William. The silent pity of her

112

"A letter for you Mrs. Dawkins."

The handwriting was unknown to her, and

THE LADYE EVA AND THE SOMER

*

Who is that middle-aged woman who sits beneath the cottage porch, round which the woodbine and the China-rose climb gracefully? Her silken hair is neatly braided beneath her snowy head-gear; her clean check apron is nicely sinoothed, and as she plies her knitting-needle, she raises her eye to heaven's blue vault, then glances it towards yon tall young man, whose glowing cheek is warm with the exercise of digging the little garden. The deep clove-pink perfumes the air; the bee hums cheerfully, and the kitten climbs her mistress' knee; all around looks cheerful; but the aged woman's brow bears marks of sorrow, more deeply traced upon its surface than those of years. She is calm and tranquil; but it is the calm of resignation, not of happiness.

And who is that pale and travel-worn man, who climbs the steep hill that overlooks the garden? See, he leans against yonder aged oak, and gazes down on the cottage. His frame is worn by years and travel, but it is not bent; it bears the upright form that long habit has given it. His worldly goods are in the bundle at his back. Care has left her traces in his face, though pleasure now is lighting up his countenance. See, he descends the hill he has reached the little wicket: the woman rises to give him welcome: she gazes on him. That time-worn form and sunbronzed face thrill to her heart-" It is !"

She rushes towards him: she is in his arms, and pressed to his bosom-it is William the Woodman!

My tale draws to its close. I need not say how William grieved-how William foughthow William fell. I need not say how letters never reached him, nor how a long imprisonment had tamed the fire of youth-how an escape was made, and Mary's letter of long-past years was at length found to clear her fame. My readers will guess it all. William was alive, and Mary was true; and though, unlike "John Anderson my Joe," they had not climbed the hill together, like them they tottered down together, and together they slept at its foot. A humble headstone marks the lowly grave, where rest the much-tried Mary and "William the Woodman!"

A Romaunt.

BY J. O. ALLMAN.

The Joust was held, the lists were filled,
And joyous was the scene;

And many a Ladye fair was there,
And many a Knight, I ween.

"Go forth, bold Knight, now speed thee forth, Upon yon Battle-plain;

And win, by deeds of high emprize,
The hand you seek to gain !”
Thus to a Knight of goodly mien
Once did a Maiden say-
She cloth'd in Beauty's silken sheen,
He in War's stern array!
The flashing coat of mail in which
He's arm'd cap-a piè ;

His Helmet and its nodding plume
In the bright sunbeams play.
His shield wears no emblazonry

To herald forth his name ;
His is no meaningless device,

Its motto is but-" J'AIME."
Daughter of noble Bolingbroke,
The Lady Eva she;

Heir of the Somerset's proud line,
The young Sir Arthur he.

"Kneel down, Sir Knight," the maiden said,
"And wear this kerchief white,
To let surrounding Beauty see

Thou art my own true Knight. Its spotless folds around thy casque Shall be to thee a shield

To guard off ev'ry ill or harm

Shall meet thee in the field.
Now do thy dévoirs well, Sir Knight,
And let each conquer'd foe
Own 'neath thy all-victorious lance
Thy Ladye strikes the blow!"
Yet, though she spoke undauntedly,
Her eye conceal'd a tear;
Her bosom gently rose and fell,

Her heart throbb'd in its fear.
The Knight he kiss'd his Ladye's hand,
And on it firmly swore

That, did he not the victor prove,
He ne'er would see her more.
"I go to prove me, Eva fair"-

T'was thus Sir Arthur said-
"Thy champion in the fight to-day;
Thy kerchief shall be red
With the best blood of chivalry

Who round thee proudly glance !
Yes, every foe thy wondrous charms
Shall own beneath my lance!"
And then upon his faulchion's cross,
Upraising it on high,

He swore that for his Ladye-love
That day he'd do or die!
And now the trumpet's braying sound
Loud for the first time rung,
Quick as the echoes died away

He on his courser sprung.
With lip compress'd and fearless eye,
He bends his gaze around;
His courser (fretting 'neath the curb)
Now paws and tramps the ground.

See how he scatters forth the foam,
Impatient champs his bit;
His nostril wide, dilated eye,
With furious ardour lit!

He, like his rider, burns with fire

To rush into the fray;

Let him but feel the slightest touch

Of spur, and he's away!

The trumpets sound once more-the Knight
Breathes her a short adieu;
Then to the lists, his visor clos'd,
Onward like lightning flew.
And in his courser's foaming flanks
Hotly he dash'd his spur;

A few more vig'rous bounds, and he
Is far away from her.

And now, the trumpets sound again,
The strife at length begun;

Oh! what a world of glitt'ring arms
Are flashing in the sun!

Oh! what a shock-as if the earth
Had been asunder rent;

Oh! what a cloud of dust proclaim'd
Which way the melee went.

The fight is done! But who is he
The victor all proclaim ;
He wears a kerchief on his helm,

His shield's device is "J'AIME!"
He doth but stop to take the wreath
Gain'd by his chivalry;

To lay it at his Ladye's feet-
See! onward dashes he !

She sees him rushing madly on

Tow'rds her with headlong speed;
But that he's safe is all she cares,
No vict'ry doth she heed!

He gains her now, and, kneeling down,
Before her lays the prize;

Then looks for sweet encouragement
Into her glist'ning eyes.

She yields her hand-he covers it
With many a burning kiss;

The greatest prize he's won that day
Is that fair hand I wis.

THE ICE-PLANT.

BY MISS M. H. ACTON.

'Twas an ice-plant, all so lonely,
In a winter garden grew,
Never sunbeam on it resting

E'en a passing brightness threw ;
Coldly sombre 'neath the gushing
Of the golden noonday light,
Dark and gloomy when 'twas shaded
By the coming hues of night.

Crocus bright, and polyanthus,
From its presence shrank with dread,
As amid their dewy-blossoms

High it rear'd its chilling head;
And the leaves that deck'd the border
Turn'd their graceful stems with fear
From the frosty breath and bearing
Of the icy stranger near.

But it chanc'd, one bitter morning, When the driving snow fell fast, And each bud crouch'd low for shelter From the keen and cutting blast, That a pale and tender snow-drop, Newly-risen from its birth,

Bow'd its head beneath the whirlwind To the hard and frozen earth.

From the storm that swept the garden

Naught could shield the fragile flower;
When the ice-plant, downward bending,
Lent its succour in that hour:
'Neath its leaves the snow-drop rested,
Safely shelter'd on the ground

From the wind that rag'd with fury,
And the snow that fell around.

And the ice-plant nestled o'er it

Through the weary winter's day, Till the sky was bright and glowing, And the storm had pass'd away. There are some in Life's wide garden, Who, with chilling look and tone, 'Mid the sweets that bloom around them Seem to wander on alone.

Pause, oh mortals, ere ye judge them;
For ye know not but may dwell
Kindly thought and noble feeling
Deep within their bosom's cell.
Like the ice-plant, 'neath their coldness,
There may lurk a vein of gold,

Which, when sought by helpless sorrow,
Priceless treasure shall unfold.

THE FADED WREATH.

The lovely rose and violet blue,
Sweet pink and lily fair;

These, dearest friend, I've cull'd for thee

To deck thy glossy hair.

Yet, ah! too soon their beauties fade,

And perish from our sightAs surely as the brightest day Will end at last in night.

Still, when bereft of scent and hue,
You see this wreath now gay;
Then slight it not-the wither'd stem
Shews life will fade away.
And let this fragrant dust remain
As emblem of the friend-
Who thro' life's every storm shall be
Still constant to the end.

S. C. E. B.

"Th' experience of no other mind
Precisely suits our own;
By light before, and silvery wake,
Our pathway may be known."

I

I have often been surprised at the great coldness, amounting almost to aversion, which some English people appear to feel towards the beauties of their native country. It may seem strange-perhaps more than strange-but, reader, question thyself, and see if it be less true! Unfortunately, no! Find me the sturdy Highlander who would not stand up in defence of his country; who would not declare that the wild glens and solitary depths of his native forests were unequalled in "a' the warl." Or the ragged Irishman who would not show his skill with the "shillaleh" if one dared to doubt that his mud cabin was the home of perfect happiness, and that the ruined towers of his forefathers had not comparable ones in any other country. 'Tis so with Scotland-'tis so with Ireland; but England-alas! poor England!though thy sons are foremost in thy defence, though they would willingly shed their best blood for thy sake, where do they look for beauty?-where for poetry of scenery? Not in thy winding streamlets, not in thy gently gliding rivers, not in the quiet waters of thy silver lakes! No! they would rather seek the genial sunbeams of Normandy, the proud waters of the "beautiful Rhine," or the rich Italian scenery of Venice! Why this preference? I have watched the bright beams of the summer-moon dancing on the eddying waters of the Rhine; I have marked the golden sunbeams sink behind the "time-worn tow'rs" of Venice; but I did but return to bless my own dear scenery the more, and thank kind Nature that she had made old England in so fair a mould. The sparkling waters of Italy may be beautiful—they may be grand; but are they more beautiful than the rippling wavelets of my own "soft-flowing Avon?" Can the Rhine boast that a SHAKSPEARE trod on the bright greensward that clothes its banks? No! Give, then, to me the spot where Shakspeare loved to ramble, and where he wooed the gentle muse that made his name immortal. 'Twas there I loved to wander-'twas there I loved to sit awhile, and ponder on the beauties of Creation; and, roaming on, my mind would light on Shakspeare and his works, and he, the

bard of Avon, was before me: not in the living world of flesh and blood, not in the paler form of marble statue; but there, in the bright realms of fancy, I felt his presence, and stood enchanted on the lovely spot. Forgive me, reader, if my enthusiasm draws me from the subject; but when I think of home-of my boyhood's homeI love to "dream on, dream on," of those bright scenes, past, like a meteor, but to dazzle for the future. I feel an adoration for the moss-grown scenery of Avon, that time cannot root out. There, as a boy, I watched the pebbles glittering in the bright waters, and the trembling bulrush that sheltered the timid wild-fowl; there, as a man of riper years, I meditated on the mysteries of the world created and the world to come; and now, that my locks are tinging beneath the hot beams of the summers I have seen, again would I visit the dear-dear spot, and seek retirement from this world's cares beneath the shade of the drooping willows that stretched their arms to shelter me in the days of boy hood.

When a boy, I rather shunned than otherwise the society of others of my age; and when the hours of study were past, when the merry group came rushing out of the village-school, to scamper on the green or join in some exploit of danger, I would creep away, and with my true friend "Nero"-poor dog!-I would glide to those favourite haunts I so well loved. Poor Nero! I think I see thy sparkling eyes and shaggy coat, as with joyous bound you obeyed my every wish. Oh! that man-proud, deceit ful man--could boast of half the truth beneath his rich embroidery, that thou hast proved thyself to hide beneath thy rough, coarse coat! Earth then would be a paradise, and man an angel!

One lovely morning, in the delightful month of August, I arose earlier than usual, and, sum moning Nero, started for a ramble amid the growing corn. It was just one of those glowing mornings when the mind, without knowing exactly why or wherefore, expands with the beauties of the surrounding scenery; until, lost in admiration, it wanders on through the fairy realms of fancy and imagination, and pictures