The lady then conjured him in the most pressing manner again to brave for her the dangers which, hitherto, had caused him but a passing terror. She promised him great riches, and offered him a magnificent farm. In short, she so completely dazzled the rash peasant, that he swore, although it should cost him his life, to go for the last time to pull a balsam in the enchanted garden.

"If I come back from it," thought he to himself, "I shall be rich, and I may pass the rest of my days in joy and abundance."

He re-entered his house making these reflections; nevertheless, he did not again dare to undertake the perilous voyage alone.

"My dear boy," said he to the eldest

LIFE.

They set off together; the more they advanced the more the defiles became narrow, and the mountains barren. When they arrived on the banks of a lake, which spread calmly and darkly between two precipitous rocks, the father fell into a profound reverie; there was something in his unquiet looks so strange that his son involuntarily trembled.

"What is the matter with you, father?" he asked.

The father remained silent. They continued to climb the sides of the mountain, and when they were near the garden, the father said

"Evil spirits have misled me from my earliest youth, and therefore I have always aspired to the possession of great riches. I have never had the fear of God, I have never had pity for men; I have led a wild and irregular life, not giving myself the trouble to set good examples, which is the duty of a father; I am now called by hell, for I must rob the lord of the mountain of the yellow balsam, and the lord of the mountain will destroy me."

The son began to weep. "Father!" he exclaimed," renounce your projectreturn to the house-God is merciful."

Wild, however, with despair, the father had already seized the spade and set to work ; in an instant all the elements appeared to be confounded together, the winds were unchained, the clouds burst, the brooks were changed into impetuous torrents, groans issued from all the plants in the garden; the mountain opened, and from its crest descended, in

I. THE SEPARATION.

"Young Love, which on their bridal eve
Had promised long to stay;
Forgot his promise, took French leave,
And bore his lamp away."

"Ir is in the power of a woman to alienate the affections of the most adoring husband, to poison his feelings, to embitter the kindliest emotions of his heart, and, in short, to make him hate her,' said Charles Proctor, as he rose to leave his once quiet and comfortable home.

"You no longer love me, Charles," said his wife, with much asperity of tone, as a flush passed over her beautiful and expressive face.

"Not so," said he, "it has not yet arrived at that point, and I dread to think there is a possibility that it may." "Why, what have I done to bring about such a change in your feelings?" and she burst into tears. Charles was about to reply, but the sobs of his once dear and still beautiful Kate quite unmanned him, and he sank into the chair he was on the point of quitting, without uttering a syllable.

They sat long sullenly apart without speaking, each occupied in different reflections, although tending to the same result he wondering what demon could have implanted the ever-fretting thorn of discontent, in a heart which he had fondly anticipated would always swell with no other sensations than those of love and domestic peace-and she, repining that her hard fate should have linked her indissolubly to such a monster.

Why was this? Charles Proctor was a noble, generous fellow; he was endowed with qualities that elevated him above his fellow-men in the scale of intellect, and to a prepossessing and attractive person were united the blandest and most engaging manners. Everybody admired him, and envied his easy temper, and the equanimity with which he endured the inevitable cares and disappointments from which the most fortunate lot is not exempt. And Kate, too, before her marriage, was a bright and buoyant being, singing like the lark from very lightness of heart, and with features, form, and motion, giving evidence of a disposition mild, gentle, and affectionate as that of the sweet birds she tended with so much For beauty, grace and accomplishments, both natural and acquired, she had but few rivals, and she was thought to be an angel by all who knew her.

care.

Then why was this? I repeat. Let me answer, gentle and courteous reader, and be not vexed with me for telling you the secrets of my friends. Kate never loved her husband. She married him because it was the best offer she had; and, as a woman's heart is an enigma, Charles was not aware of the fact until their hands were united. It is true that her friends opposed the match, but that was an incentive rather than an impediment to its conclusion. The gentleman, however, persevered, and as the lady had made up her mind to the matter, all objections were waived, and the most favourable auguries were entertained as to the prospective felicity of the wedded pair. The honeymoon passed, as most honeymoons do-sweet and joyous at its rise, rapturous at its full, and verging toward insipidity at its decline. But happiness, to be enduring, must proceed from a mutual attachment; and, as in a mercantile concern, its prosperity cannot be permanent when one partner is constantly drawing upon the resources of the other, without supplying his fair proportion of the capital, and promoting the interests of the firm; so in the matrimonial venture the house must stop payment if divided against itself. Charles was a merchant, thence our metaphor.

They had been married three years. Had they been happy ones? No, to neither. At first they went on tolerably well. To be sure, the lady was generally in an ill-humour; little bickerings ensued, petulant remarks were bandied, and smart answers returned; a keen encounter of

the wits would ever and anon arise; domestic neglects would be magnified into grievances, and occasional disputes degenerate into habitual; a quarrel succeeded them, and at length an open rupture was the position of the belligerent parties, which led to the remarks recorded at the commencement of this veritable story.

Need we go on through all the changes, vexations, annoyances, recriminations, and squabbles that ensued? how mutual dissatisfaction took possession of their minds; how they separated; and how the meddling world blamed first one and then the other, and how they turned almost broken-hearted away from what they once valued so highly?

II. THE REUNION.

"Oh woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please; But when affliction wrings the brow, A ministering angel thou."

It was autumn: the foliage had put on its variegated mantle, like the patriarch's coat of many colours; and hill, grove, field, and plain flashed back upon the declining beams of the sun the thousand reflections his splendours had lent them. It was that gentle season of quiet melancholy, that tender and saddened time of the year, when the heart is in unison with the gorgeous mourning of nature; when the sensibilities are the most vivid in their emotion, and the wailing breeze sweeps a chord in every soft and suffering bosom.

Proctor was in his library and alone: a book was in his hand, but its contents could not banish the busy thoughts that possessed a counter-spell to the poet's imaginings. His retrospective glance travelled back through the pensive vista of twelve solitary years, since when the Gordian knot of his nuptial chord had been severed by the relentless hand of destiny, whose shears had been sharpened by human passions, and the wretched cavillings of fallible and yet unforgiving creatures. His mind was dwelling upon the days of his youth: he recalled the hour, the scene, when he first saw Kate; and all the fresh feelings of that hour, and the associations of that spot, were renewed within him. He dwelt upon the fond endearments that then agitated his bosom; and, he knew not wherefore, a flush came upon his cheek, a pang shot through his heart, his lip trembled,

all

and, why he knew not, but he could have wept like a child! It is true, he was no longer young; but the world had gone prosperously with him, and wealth and fame had crowned his exertions: he had outlived the slanders and ill-will of those who had misjudged his feelings, and knew nothing of his motives; and all his early impressions had been mellowed by the soothing hand of time. Solitude was uncongenial to his nature, and although it gave quiet to his mind, yet it did not bring happiness to his heart.

A knock disturbed his reverie, and announced a visiter. He was glad to be interrupted, and the door was immediately opened, when his daughter, now a blooming, light-hearted, joyous and lovely girl, between that uncertain, but interesting age of girl and womanhood, bounded into his arms like a fawn, and, as she covered him with kisses, the words "dear father" broke from her rosy lips.

She had just returned from school for the season, and had come to spend a few weeks with her father, whom she loved with all the fondness of her innocent heart.

In Kate's character there was one conspicuous feature: she had educated her child to love and respect her father, and, notwithstanding the obloquy that was heaped upon him by her own relations, she never gave vent to one single remark that implied a censure of his conduct, nor allowed any one to do it in her presence, and least of all, in her daughter's hearing. Her husband had been very liberal to her; she had never known a want since her separation from him, and her days of reflection, which had glided on in tranquillity, had the effect of showing her the folly of her former rash undertaking, while her present lonely condition daily demonstrated its discomfort.

What all who knew them had in vain endeavoured to effect, their mutual reconciliation, which they both proudly and steadily declined, accident at length brought about. Proctor was suddenly seized with a malignant fever, and when the hirelings of his establishment shrunk from the performance of their duty, the daughter, perceiving her parent's immi. nent peril, made her mother acquainted with the fact.

Strange and inscrutable feeling of the female bosom, which opposition prompts, and which difficulties excite, to the noblest and most devoted efforts! This woman,

who in the very wantonness of prosperity, when the swelling waves of happiness had invited her to launch her bark of life upon their tide, had madly dashed it upon the rocks and quicksands of adversity, now that the withering blast was raging, and the sirocco breathing poison around, discovered in the recesses of her heart a fibre which now first vibrated to love and all the fond endearments of our nature, and came, like a ministering angel, bringing balm and comfort to the disturbed and restless couch. Her long and assiduous vigils were at length recompensed by the restoration to perception and consciousness, of the chastened and afflicted father of her child, the being to whom she ever afterwards clung with a devotion no foes could alienate, misconstruction impair, no time could change.

They had each discovered that, as in all similar cases, both had been in error, and had learned that most important of all secrets, that mutual forbearance is the talisman of human content, and that a desire to promote the happiness of another is the surest way of securing our

SIGNIFICATION OF THE WORD QUASI.

QUASI is to feign-to make a pretence, to make a show of a feint-a mock attack-or an appearance of aiming at one part when another is meant to be struck-a ruse de guerre, as practised in war, from the days of Generals Moses and Joshua; and in love, from the days of Eve downwards, so ancient and honourable is this sly adverb quasi.

Q is a suspicious letter, and begins almost all our questionable words. It is the origin or fruitful mother of quirkquibble-question-quiver-and queer, that is whimsical, or twirl-about. Q's oldest child was Coquet, originally written with a Q, but Frenchified into a C. Our dandy, fashionable word Quiz, is her last child that is living, and is a great favourite with newspaper paragraph writers. To coquet, which is trifling in love, where there is in reality none, has quasi for its parent, whence came numerous offspring, as quassusquassatus, and quasillaria—a light-carriaged female, while the sons have prac. tised the law, and are commonly known

by-as if-as it were, seeing that it is beyond all doubt-in a manner—as though one were to say—or about to be -almost, or near upon-to almost the same purpose—and to the best of my recollection-the root of all these beautiful quivering branches is our queer adverb quasi.

A young lady writes to her female friend-"You inquire whether that is a real, bona fide, serious affair between My opinion is

Eliza and Mr.

I can't speak positively, but I am inclined to hazard a guess, that he has a considerable notion to be serious, but afraid to be positive; and she may use a little flirtation, very allowable in our sex, where there is the least reason to suspect, to use a new-fashioned word, a quasi-offer, which allows either to back out, without the imputation of disingenuity. Oh! how I hate such quasi business! don't you?" Take another example. In old times, a general of a marauding army wrote to the governor of a Lacedemonian city-" Send me so many talents of gold, otherwise, if I come near your city, I will take twice the sum by force." The brave and confident governor answered his threat by a letter containing the single quasi"IF."

THE ANT.-A FABLE.

we should try again and again, and persevere until it is accomplished. If an ant was not discouraged by sixty-nine failures, why should mankind be disheartened?

BEAUTY.

We have high authority for the opinion, that perfect loveliness is only to be found where the features, even when most beautiful, derive their peculiar charm from the sweetness and gentleness of disposition which the counten

ance expresses.

PASSION.

The word passion, though variously applied, is never so legitimately used, as when meant to convey that peculiar and intense susceptibility to the impressions of female beauty, which pervades and lights up the heart of him who, in chaste and lovely woman, sees a charm "sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes, or Cytherea's breath.”

SENSIBILITY.

There are some feelings which, perhaps, are too tender to be suffered by the world. The world is in general selfish, interested, and unthinking, and throws the imputation, or romance, or melancholy, on every temper more susceptible than its own. I cannot think but in those regions which I contemplate, if there is anything of mortality

be accomplished."

THE celebrated conqueror, Timour the Tartar, was once forced to take shelter from his enemies in a ruined building. There he sat alone for several hours. After some time, desirous of diverting bis mind from his hopeless condition, he fixed his attention on an ant, which was attempting to carry a grain of corn larger than itself up a high wall; its efforts, however, were unsuccessful. Again and again it strove to accomplish its object, and failed. Still undaunted, it returned to its task, and sixty-nine times did Timour see the grain fall to the ground: but the seventieth time the ant reached the top of the wall with the prize, and "the sight," said the conqueror, who had just before been despairing, “ gave me courage at the moment, and I have never forgotten the lesson it conveyed."

APPLICATION.-Nor should we forget it. We should first see if a thing is worth doing, and if it be, and we fail,

subsist they are called-perhaps they are-weaknesses here; but there may be some better modifications of them in heaven, which may deserve the name of virtues.

PEDANTRY.

Ignorance I can bear without emotion; but the affectation of learning gives me a fit of the spleen.

SIMILES.

Law is like a country dance: people are led up and down in it till they are fairly tired out. It is like a book of surgery; there are a great many terrible cases in it. It is like physic, too; they that take the least of it are best off. It is like a homely gentleman; "very well to follow:" and like a scolding wife; Law is very bad when it follows us. like a new fashion; people are bewitched to get into it: and like bad weather; most people are glad to get out of it.

Love is like the sandal tree, that sheds sweetness on the axe that wounds it.

CAROLINE CROCHARD seemed to have been born for love and gaiety. Love had painted two perfect arches over her half-closed eyelids, and had endowed her with so thick a forest of chestnut locks, that under her ample tresses she could have concealed herself as securely as under a tent, impenetrable to a lover's gaze. The gaiety of her soul was apparent by the constant agitation of her restless nostrils, and in the dimples of her fresh and laughing cheeks; a gaiety which made her forget every care, and which, like hope, threw a ray of sunshine over the arid desert of her life, and made her view, without apprehension, its unpromising perspective.

The young girl's graceful head was always arrayed with a marvellous and elegant simplicity. According to the custom of the Parisian sempstresses, her toilet was complete when she had carelessly arranged her tresses, and twisted into two bows the dark brown locks which crowned each temple, and by VOL. I. (12.)

which the pure whiteness of her complexion was enhanced.

II.

The stranger who, every morning and evening, passed by the window where Caroline was constantly at work, appeared to be about thirty-five years old. He was tall, slenderly-formed, pale; was always dressed in black, and walked with a steady, stately step. On his austere and sad features, Caroline discovered the traces of long and patient suffering of heart. His early wrinkled brow, his slightly hollowed cheek, bore the signet which sorrow imprints upon its offspring, as if to leave them the consolations of recognising each other by a fraternal resemblance, and of uniting together to bear up against its influence. If, at first, the gaze of the young girl was animated by an innocent curiosity, it assumed, by degrees, a sweet expression of sympathy and of pity, as the stranger receded daily from her sight like the last friend who closes the mournful procession of a funeral.

III.

As the stranger passed by Caroline's residence at a late hour one night,

N