Erewhile thy brow was high with scorn, And I some lonely thing, But where is now thy haughty mien ? But some few things have smiled on me, While yet a child I used to be, And sported in the sun. And when my form had manlier grown, Poor lady, with the radiant hair! Thy life hath been a vision fleet, Of sunny things and bright; Undreamt the thought that morn so sweet Should close so soon in night. I know I know-that pleading eye Poor mother, too-thou canst not hush Yes, thou may'st grieve; but could'st thou know Must thou, too, die?-pale, trembling child, Thy lips are young, and scarce have smil'd, I ken the pretty hills thou'st seen And where thy bounding steps have been Well thou may'st weep-the earth is bright Thou must grow older ere the light And thou, grey-headed man, for shame! Earth's hopes have pass'd-thou hast no claim, Thou'st pluck'd thy spring and summer flowers; And autumn's fruits are o'er ; And now the frowning winter lowers, Why stay?-what would'st thou more? Alas! alas! I do thee wrong Thou, too, hast yet a claim; Thou'st pleasure in thy daughter's song, Thy little grand-child's name. Gold sunshine-striking thro' green leaves, at morn, With an untiring grace; by the brown stems Or fringing houseleek, fissury gaps that hems! These, with rich emerald glens, thro' which clear brooks Dash from the uplands down to some dim cove, And to the pensive spirit hope and love, II. All these, and more, have we at Ilfracombe, Where, by the hour, I sit upon some rock, 'Gainst which, with constant ebb and flow, the shock Of rushing waves comes scatheless. From the gloom Of the dark future, then, do shapes assume A brighter guise; and ere I can unlock Its cot and garden of content; while o'er то I saw thee smile but for one minute, W. S. ON THE FALSE POSITION A GOVERNESS HOLDS IN SOCIETY. suffer, it must be in secret. She must be thoroughly conversant with every branch of knowledge, with every accomplishment requisite to petent to answer any questions on any subject for the convenience and assistance of her pupils and her pupils' parents. Every situation in life, it has been said, has its advantages as well as its disadvantages-its bright side as well as its dark side-as each season has its sunshine and its clouds. But-adorn the female character; she must be comfor even here a "but" arises-surely we must make the situation of a governess an exception! What advantages do her situation possess? With education to fit her for the important task If her pupils possess good abilities and toleraof instructing the young; and, with the natural ble understanding, and their progress be rapid result of education-refinement of thought, or in the different branches of knowledge to which sensitiveness to feel the dependence of her posi- they apply, the governess must not expect any tion-she is constantly exposed to the misery of merit to be attributed to her, or her method of feeling herself slighted and neglected by those communicating instruction. On the contrary, who, though her superiors in all the conventional if her pupils be deficient in ability, and compreadvantages which rank and wealth confer, are hend as well as apprehend slowly and imperso frequently her inferiors in that which forms fectly, and their progress be not commensurate the true nobility of mind and character. Is with the anticipations of the parents, the govershe not rather to be praised and admired for ness must not be surprised if the blame be imher self dependence-for her toil for self sup- puted to her, and if she, in consequence, be port? The laws of society exclude women dismissed with the stigma of being inefficient almost entirely from all money-getting depart- and incompetent. ments; and when woman resorts to teaching, Think of the horror of growing prematurely which is made her only legitimate means, society grey and old, of passing the spring-time of life casts upon her a ban, and brands her with scorn. within the precincts of a school-room, teaching We know of no class in society more pitiable the rudiments, the alphabet of knowledge; at a than that of governesses: we mean those who time, too, when the expanding and maturing are so from necessity. Those best adapted, by mind is most capable of seizing upon and comeducation and high moral principle, to under-prehending the truths of science and philosotake the all-important office of instructing the young, of forming character, are the most alive to the evils connected with that office. The bitterness of heart arising from the feeling of dependence will constantly darken the moments of leisure, like a black cloud on a summer's day. It will haunt them when in company, apparently happy and light of heart. Those who have suffered mentally will know too well that laughter is not always a proof of happiness and gaiety of heart. If occasionally absorbed in the earnestness of animated discourse, or drawn away by the sallies of wit to forget her position, how will a word, a tone, a glance, recall the bitter thought" I am only a governess — I am amongst them, but not of them." Oh, the loneliness of heart; the isolation of feeling so frequently experienced, so incomprehensible to those who have passed their lives in love and happiness, in a home! They know not the restraint of manner, thought, feeling, imposed upon "the governess." A governess must be always the same, circumspect in word and deed; she must never indulge in the luxury of sorrow; she must stifle the poignant grief felt for the loss of the dearest friend and relatives; she must forget that she has feelings in common with humanity; she must be always cheerful; ever ready to amuse; her time ever at the disposal of others; she must seldom expect to enjoy a short hour's solitude, to give vent to her restrained feelings; she must always appear well and cheerful; if she phy, the higher branches of literature. But from farther progress the poor governess is debarred. She is precluded from enlarging her sphere of knowledge; she will stagnate if not retrograde; stagnation is, indeed, retrogression: her views will become narrowed; she will eventually sink into the character of a mere walking grammara dictionary-alas, a mere verbalist. Oh, the martyrdom of feeling occasioned by the insulting condescension of the visitors within, and their rude neglect without! How difficult to restrain the anger of injured pride-to conceal the contempt inspired by such little-mindedness-to reside in a family a sufficient period to gain the affections of her pupils, and become attached to them in return-to flatter herself with the hope of having acquired, perhaps, one future friend during her brief sojourn, then to be necessitated, by unforseen and uncontrollable circumstances, to leave--to enter another family, again to undergo the same trials, the same tasks-to form new acquaintances, new hopes of friendship and happiness, ere long to be again blasted-to feel the want of sympathy in her various emotions of pleasure, of pain-to find no one who can or will participate in her sentiments-to know the feeling of indifference with which she is regarded-that her company is only tolerated in the drawing-room on account of her utility in the school-room-to know that her departure will cause no pang, not even a sigh of momentary regret; the chilling thought that she will be forgotten as soon as absent; never mentioned but in terms of detraction by her successor, as to the methods pursued relative to instructions, who will impute to her the faults and backwardness of the children-to hear the cold, common-place wishes for her health and happiness, expressed on taking leave; the language of politeness, so unlike the farewell of affection -to feel that she is again going among strangers, not to the home of her heart! Oh, bitter, bitter, to have such feelings awakened! Oh, how sad is the position of a governess! Will it ever be thus? Why is woman considered to degrade herself, to lose caste, by endeavouring to support herself, and that by the all-important office of education? Why should she, in consequence, be subjected to the insults, the neglect of those with whom the accident of birth had rendered her equal, and education and high principle frequently superior? The more liberal-minded and enlightened few will tell her to despise the insolence and arrogance of the ig norant many. Philosophy will teach her to feel indifferent to the injustice and selfism of the parents. Pride will teach her to conceal her depth of misery, and conscience will teach her to be satisfied with the knowledge of acting uprightly and honestly. But a governess is not exempt from the failings of human nature-she is not differently constituted from the rest of mankind, though many would endeavour to render such the prevailing opinion. Is it, then, a miracle, that she should keenly feel, and earnestly desire to alter and ameliorate the false position she holds in society? Many will say the evils of the governess's position are here greatly magnified. That there are "a few" who regard and treat the governess as an equal, as a friend, we do not deny; but they are of the very few. But we trust that the time is coming when woman will not be considered to degrade herself by a mode of action which should ensure her praise and respect. MENTIA. Mrs. Elton was a very remarkable woman. She had a faculty of making everybody lose their tempers while she kept her own. She ruled her family with unlimited sway; kept a sharp eye upon her daughter Grace; worked a little, visited a little, read a little, and talked a great deal. She was withal a decided man-hater. Whoever proved rash enough to bestow a glance upon the pretty daughter, was directly nearly annihilated by a terrible look from the watchful mamma; so terrible, that twenty smiles from the young lady could hardly compensate for it. Grace was very pretty-so said every one who had seen her face-so thought many who had only heard her voice in the psalm on Sunday; and when she was eighteen, her dear mamma groaned in her secret soul, that she should be the mother of so bewitching a creature. Her papa began to grow fidgety. It was time for his sweet flower to unfold to leaves, he thought; but how venture to propose to mamma to send forth her beautiful child to be spoiled in the wicked world? Mr. Elton meditated long upon a subject which lay near his heart. At last, even as a cat pounces upon the mouse, which it has been long marking for its own, so Mr. Elton pounced upon the matter in question. 66 "My dear, I shall bring home with me a young man whom I am determined shall marry Grace." "My dear,” replied Mrs. Elton, colouring slightly from the surprise caused by the sudden flash of spirit in her meek husband-" he shall not see her." Mr. Elton gave up quietly; he had watched his mouse in vain. Grace was fortunately a very quiet sort of a girl; she loved papa and mamma, her books, and her flowers. Moreover, she loved her pretty friend Mary, and, for aught I know, might have fallen in love with the only young man of her acquaintance, Mary's tall brother, had it not been for a great pair of eyes, of a fiery colour, stealing out from under a mass of stiff hair of the same fiery hue. Mrs. Elton was not afraid of Daniel Hartly. To be sure he had even hinted that if she were a little taller-had a little more colour, and wore prettier bonnets, he might condescend to take pity upon her forlorn state; but Mrs. Elton feared him not. Mamma was convinced that Grace would never fall in love with any one, until the proper moment when she should desire her to do so. And to tell the truth, Grace would as soon have thought of stopping to admire the very stones by the wayside as the young men whom she met everywhere. Great, therefore, was Mrs. Elton's astonishment when, one morning at church, she detected her daughter's eyes in the very act of gazing in another direction than the pulpit, and a pair of doubtful hue returning the compliment! Her movement of surprise called poor Grace to her senses. She turned seriously to the preacher, resolved not to move her eyes from his face again through the morning. Yet, when her mamma, a few moments after, glanced at her face to see that all was right, the blue eyes were absolutely directed towards another part of the church. The look of indignation which Mrs. E. thought proper to assume, was not lost upon Grace. She did not again venture to lift her eyes from the glove which she had been pulling to pieces. Jerk the first-off came the button; jerk the second-a great rent through the length of the glove; jerk the third-a finger amputated. 'Mercy on me! What is the child about!" mentally ejaculated Mrs. Elton, as she rapped the knuckles of the offender with her fan-"a bran new pair of gloves!" Grace felt that her mamma was displeased with her, but she tried to persuade herself that it was on account of the gloves. "I'm sure I've done nothing else," said she to herself again and again; yet somehow she anticipated a lecture, and trembled at the thought. The next evening, Mr. Elton, with his wife on one arm and Grace on the other, set off upon their usual walk. The retired lane to which they bent their steps was a favourite of Mrs. E.'s, because nobody else ever thought of setting foot there. Grace liked it, because mamma never ordered her to draw her thick green veil over her face while there, and Mrs. Elton was satisfied, because there was nothing in it to call for especial like or absolute disgust. In the midst of this green lane there was an old house, and on the garden gate there sat a man, busily engaged in drawing. On hearing footsteps, why should not he turn, and on seeing pretty Grace, why should he not look pleasedand when thus looked upon by a handsome young man, why should not Grace blush? Mamma perceived the stranger of yesterday; she perceived his look of delight, and the blush of Grace, and pinched papa's arm. This being a signal formerly agreed upon between them, Mr. Elton prepared to obey it; but as each particle of his face was of itself a distinct smile, it required a considerable length of time to screw up his broad and sunny countenance into the gall and vinegar expression desired. So the young man received from the good papa what he conceived to be a very gracious smile. "I'll get an introduction to that man," said he to himself-and the three were gone. The next night Mrs. Elton debated whether it would be expedient to go where he of the eyes might also choose to wander; but at last, concluding that no one save herself would take so dismal a walk more than once, she entered it without reluctance. There sat the young man upon the post, and again his eyes met those of Grace. "I'll never set foot here again," secretly vowed Mrs. Elton. The next evening Grace came down more becomingly attired than usual. She had evidently deen enjoying a private interview with her dressing-glass; perhaps it had said to her, "My love, you look prettily in your last new dress," but I can't positively assert that it had said anything. "Shall we walk to-night, mamma?" "No." And Grace ran back to her room and fastened her door. Presently she heard her mother's voice, and flew to unlock it. My love," said her father, one night at tea, "do you remember that we saw a gentleman sitting upon the gate of the old house in the lane, a few nights ago?" "Yes, papa," answered Grace, colouring, in spite of herself. "Well, I have found out to-day that he is the author of those poems which you admire so much. His name is Lawrence Norton." Up stairs, two at a time, flew Grace, and snatching a well-worn volume from the shelf, sat down to the twenty-sixth reading. The poems were never half so beautiful before-she was sure of that; but somehow she could not help feeling a little uneasy sensation, as she gathered from certain odd lines that the poet certainly loved somebody with all his heart. Who could it be? What a happy creature his sister-his wife must be! The next Sabbath she saw the poet at church. When she felt quite sure that he did not know it, she looked at him because he was a poet. Certainly he had a fine intellectual head and face, and his eyes were so dark and expressive! But then it was not right to have such thoughts on a Sunday, so Grace ordered all vain and foolish ones to depart from her mind. One evening, as they sat together at tea, Mr, Elton said to his wife "My dear, do you remember your old friend Lucy Lawrence?" "Oh, yes; but it is many years since I have seen her. She married-who was it?-odd that I can't remember." "There is a son of hers in town, and as I knew you would like to see him, I invited him to spend an evening with us. His name is Lawrence Norton, the same of whom I spoke to you, Grace." 66 'Well," said Mrs. Elton-but her countenance expressed anything but pleasure. She seemed absorbed in thought several minutes; at last, suddenly starting, she addressed Grace: My dear, I quite forgot to tell you that your friend Mary is not well, and I think you had better go this evening and see her." "What if he should come while I am gone?" thought Grace; and she thought it expedient to drink half a cup of scalding tea. "Why, what's the matter with the child?" cried Mrs. E., seeing her eyes full of tears. "The tea is so hot, mamma!" 66 Hardly worth crying about, however." Grace set off on her visit to Mary. On her return home she danced into the parlour singing what do you think she was singing? One of Lawrence Norton's songs; and who should be there but the poet himself, and probably he knew that those words were his own. How should Grace recover from the confusion into which she had thus danced! It was rather late, and she knew that he must stay only a few minutes longer. The few minutes, however, were well improved by the young man, for he lost no time in getting acquainted with the beautiful one who had sung his song. It was natural enough that Grace should be pleased when she heard him invited by papa to come again; it was right for the young poet to be glad to come again. Grace could think of nothing else for a whole week. She read his poems; she could not help hoping she should meet him if she walked out; she ran to the window many times a day when some tall personage was passing. "How delightful it will be," thought she, "to hear him talk a whole evening! I hope he will not send mamma word when he is coming again! If he does, woe be unto me; I shall be sent away." Strange to tell, the poet did take pains to let Mrs. Elton know that he was about to honour her with his company again. Grace was directly desired to spend the evening with her friend Mary. "How provoking!" she thought. "Why am I sent out of the house in this style every time any one comes into it?" Grace was not in a very good humour. She walked slowly along the street with her eyes cast to the ground, vexed with herself, because she couldn't help thinking of Mr. Norton, and vexed with her mamma for denying her his delightful Society. 66 However," thought she, "I have always admired him ever since I have seen his poems, and there's no harm in thinking of a poet." looking extremely handsome? Could she order him to become tedious, common-place, "prosy dosy" in his conversation? The next day, however, Mrs. Elton took good care to confine Grace to her own room. "It will never do," said she, "for you to stay down stairs, where we are constantly in danger of having visitors." Moreover, the dear mamma, anxious to ascertain, if possible, the state of her daughter's heart, began to talk of Lawrence Norton. But how should she discover that which Grace knew not herself? A serious address on the evils of falling in love followed this examination, and so deep was the interest of the subject, that Mrs. Elton did not perceive the approach of the dinner hour, nor the well-known ring of her husband. At last a forcible entrance was made into the room by the dear little man himself. "Why, what's the matter?" cried he; "here I've been waiting for dinner this half hour; dinner growing colder and colder, and I hotter and hotter. Then I come and knock at your door till my knuckles are black and blue: no answer; call till my lungs are sore, no answer; and now I should like to know the meaning of all this." By this time Mr. Elton's wrath had evaporated, and he threw himself into a chair, and burst into a fit of uncontrollable laughter, when the astonished mamma made known to him the subject of her morning's lecture. "And all because you fancy that poor Grace may be smitten with the perfections of Lawrence Norton, or the poet with hers? Did not I tell you, my dear, that the man has a wife?" and Mr. Elton ran down to the parlour. Mrs. Elton followed her husband; and Grace, with the blood rushing away from cheek and life, threw herself back upon her pillow in an agony of contending emotions. She had learned that of her heart, which is not often easily taught At this moment her foot caught itself in a string which lay tangled in her path; to save herself from falling, she caught at the nearest post, which post proved to be no other than why should she not with wonder and with Lawrence Norton! In her haste to release the shame own to herself that she loved? Poor astonished poet from her embraces, she fell, and Grace! How her mamma wondered at the the young gentleman imagining that she had feverish flush of her cheek, as she returned to fainted, took her unceremoniously in his arms, her side; how she instantly sent for Dr. Morton, and carried her into the house that seemed and how anxiously she watched his face as he nearest. Great was his mortification when he sat by the pillow of his patient! The doctor found that the lady had not fainted, and if he was a wise as well as a good man. He did not might judge from the colour of her face at the attempt to administer a dose to the sick heart, moment, had no thought of doing so. It was but simply recommending quiet in a significant happily the home of kind Mary Hartly, and she tone, he withdrew. Alas! to what quiet was had a faculty of making everybody at ease in her Grace now condemned! The servants went presence. It was soon ascertained that Miss about with listed slippers; papa was obliged to Grace had sprained her ankle, and that her part with his boots the moment he entered the walking home was out of the question. Mary house, and the really kind mamma flitted noisewas very sorry; but neither papa nor brother lessly about like a spirit. At last Grace conwas at home, so Lawrence Norton went off very trived to convince her papa that she should die, cheerfully for a carriage. Grace was assisted to if imprisoned in this room in profound stillness, creep into it by the poet; he could not do less so while Mrs. E. had gone down to scold a serthan to accompany her, and in a few minutes vant for slamming a door, Mr. Elton took the gentle, uncomplaining girl was lying com- Grace in his arms, and safely bore her to the fortably upon the sofa at home, with papa, sofa in the parlour. When Mrs. E. entered the mamma, and Lawrence Norton around her. What room, there lay the poor invalid, with a brighter could mamma do? Could she send the young colour in her cheek than had been seen there for man out of the house? Could she forbid his | a week. She was decidedly better. What had |