the other. Indeed we are inclined to think that
to a beautiful girl of twenty a friend, especially of
the sterner sex, is a more rare acquisition than a
lover; and as the rarer things are, the more we
commonly prize them, by a very simple logic
a friend ought to be considered the more valuable
of the two. But this is a sort of knowledge that
only comes by experience, and so poor Louise
must not be blamed for possessing a young head
upon young shoulders. Indeed her character
would have been as completely marred by a pre-
cocious admixture of hard, dry, bitter knowledge,
as her graceful Hebe figure would have been had
the classical head and blooming countenance been
exchanged for the withered visage of age. Strange
it is, but like many strange things most true, that
the more a man possesses of that same hard, dry,
bitter knowledge, the better does he appreciate,
and the more does he long to rest his own tired
nature on the confiding love of an artless and un-
worldly woman; the more does he yearn to have
his heart refreshed by her holy influence, and his
loftier aspirations re-awakened by the echo her
purer feelings arouse, in the perhaps long-closed
chambers of his mind. The fervent love of Colonel
Berriton had root in such emotions. Almost in-
stinctively had he read the yet undeveloped cha-
racter of Louise Merrivale, and thankfully did he
rejoice that her wise father had put it out of her
power (without a sacrifice that few lovers would
have exacted) to seal her own fate, as so many do,
at a period of life when the law thinks it necessary
to protect property, but not the possessors of it.
To the brave soldier, and care-worn statesman,
she seemed like a half-blown flower, still pro-
tected in its bower of foliage from the storms of
life; and oh! how ardently had he hoped to
shelter it from every ill in the strong arms of af-
fection, and teach it to expand in the sunshine of
truth and purity!

Reader, did you ever ponder over the pages of Addison, Steele, or Pope, or any other gifted writer of the early part of the last century, till, indulging in a day-dream, you fancied yourself moving in a motley group of patched and painted ladies and gentlemen, the former protected from too near an approach by the unwieldy hoop-that you journeyed from play-house or ball in the jolting sedan, lighted by the running link-boys, whose torches made visible the darkness of London streets-that you yourself belonged to this old regime, and talked about "Jacobites" and the "Hanoverian succession," as present and fruitful subjects of discourse, or perhaps discussed Sir Robert Walpole's policy about as familiarly as now you do Sir Robert Peel's? Have you ever done this, remembering all the time that human nature is made of much the same stuff in all generations; and knowing that if you can read that book at all, it matters very little in what binding you peruse it? Reader, if you can dream thus, be so kind as to accompany Louise Merrivale to a masquerade of that day.

She had been now engaged three months to Sir Charles Harcourt. One quarter of the long probation had passed, but towards the close of this period some friend had whispered in her ear the

| tale of her lover's imprudence, if we must not at present use a harsher term for one of the vices most prevalent in that age. Strange to say, in her distress and perplexity she had, by the advice of her aunt, under whose roof she resided, sought counsel of her rejected suitor, Colonel Berriton; with whom, somewhat to her own surprise, she had latterly become on the most pleasant terms of friendly intimacy. In following his directions she was about to take a daring step, and her heart beat wildly while she thanked the friendly mask which concealed her changing cheek. For good and sufficient reasons she had assumed a domino of the commonest kind, though the fan which bung from her wrist was peculiar; and when at a certain hour she carelessly unfurled it, an acquaintance who had ever examined the bauble might possibly have recognized its mistress; but it was a recent purchase, and we do not think had been used before. While her trembling hand still swayed the fan, whose service indeed she very much needed, a stranger domino advanced as if to address her. It could not be Harcourt, for he had worn a very different dress when half an hour before he had made an excuse to quit her side, leaving her, it is true, under the especial care of her aunt, the Countess F."

"Do you dance?" said the stranger, in a voice which was evidently assumed; and then added in the same key, but a softer tone, “there is time."

Louise rose at the moment, and faintly murmuring " It is true," gave her hand to the stranger.

Without exchanging further speech they quickly threaded the crowd, but instead of joining the dancers ascended a staircase, and traversed a long gallery, the stranger evidently acting as guide. Three or four other masks were sauntering about, but he waited for a few minutes till those who were nearest had passed on, then pressing the spring of an invisible door, he entered by it, drawing Louise hastily after him.

She found herself in a large and brilliantly lighted chamber, nor were she and the stranger the only inmates; nearly thirty persons were there of both sexes, and of nearly all ages, but seated in different groups-they were alike occupied with cards or dice. Oh, what a sad but life-long study for the poet, painter, or philosopher night those countenances have proved, branded as they were for the most part with fiery passions! The company were too much engrossed to notice the new comers, and Louise, guided by the stranger, advanced to a table where two young men were placed somewhat apart from the rest. Their masks had been removed, but even beneath that disguise she would instantly have recognized one of the players for Harcourt. With more self-possession than she had thought herself mistress of, but not apparently with more than the stranger had expected from her, she stood beside the chair of her affianced husband, and even supported her trembling form for some seconds on the back of it.

"The cards are against you to-night, Sir Charles," observed Harcourt's antagonist. "I will have my revenge," replied the young baronet, "if I stake my last acre to obtain it." "Be it so," rejoined the other with perfect cool

It was well she looked not at Berriton, for she might, perhaps, have read a tale that he would fain at that moment have hidden. So overpowered was he, that he leaned against a cabinet for support; but he exclaimed, "Fate is too cruel: only stern, inexorable duty could lead me from England at such a time."

*

Summer had mellowed into autumn, but it seemed that refreshing breezes could not recall the roses to the checks of Louise Merivale. It must be confessed she was less Hebe-like than ever. Did she mourn her absent friend, or weary of her present lover? Sir Charles Harcourt had become latterly more attentive than ever; but there are people who do not improve on a very close acquaintance. Comparisons, too, are dangerous, especially for a lover, when his mistress chances to compare him as the less worthy with some other. Still the world spoke not of any decided rupture between the young baronet and his fiancée, and the on dit of the world, as it usually does, must pass

current.

It was a chilly October evening: Sir Charles was to have accompanied Louise and her aunt to the theatre, but had just sent an apology, on the plea of important business: they had consequently determined on remaining at home, and were alone, when a note was delivered to the younger lady: it was in the hand-writing of Colonel Berriton, and ran thus:

"In a few hours I hope to meet you; but think

not that though absent I have ceased to watch over your interests. The promise has been broken. I ask you but once more to accompany your mysterious guide, and probably to witness a scene whose very memory must be harrowing to your gentle nature. It is to my house you will be conducted-the house you are perhaps aware that I have lent during my absence to Sir Charles Harcourt."

of Harcourt, had given place to a deathly palor,
expressive of the hopeless misery of the ruined
gamester. He had usually a full mastery over his
countenance, and it was--until her eyes were
opened to the truth-by assuming much he never
felt, that he had made the first impression on the
heart of Louise Merrivale. But at this moment
he had no motive for concealment ;-his antagonist
knew him already to be ruined.
The game
fluctuated for a little while, but what the stakes
were the lookers-on could not clearly discover.
At last, after some desperate loss, frantic with rage,
the miserable Harcourt started up, stamping wildly
on the floor, and actually pulling out his hair by
the roots. But, just as he would have done in
similar circumstances, the winner looked coldly on.

"Is there nothing more you will venture," said the latter, "with the chance of winning back a few thousands? Nay, no expectations, if you please Sir Charles; for since they hang on the caprice of a girl, they are not for my market."

"I have neither money nor friends-what think you of a secret, that might be more valuable than either?"

"Define it less vaguely."

"What think you of a man, basking in his sovereign's favour, carrying his head proudly as an honourable man, betraying that sovereign's confidence, and keeping up correspondence with that arch-traitor St. John?"

fairly staked against the last twenty thousand pounds "I should think his name and the proofs you owe me."

"Read then," said Harcourt, drawing some papers from a recess, "all but the name is here; and I swear to you to reveal that if I lose!"

The two scanned carefully the documents for a few minutes. Louise would have fallen but for the ready arm of her companion, who in a faint Following some further unimportant directions, but most impressive whisper, conjured her to enLady F and her niece accompanied, in speech-dure this one more trial. This time dice, not less anxiety, the nameless stranger. Silently were they admitted to the mansion of Colonel Berriton, and it certainly did occur to Louise that the stranger, to whom all places seemed alike accessible, must possess, some strange and powerful influence. Vaguely perhaps, but still with sufficient clearness to be understood, she expressed these sentiments, and her companion paused a moment ere he replied.

"Men say that I am the favourite of a king, and to such persons great difficulties melt away like snow in the sunshine."

Lady Fremained in an ante-room, but Louise passed on with the unknown-who seemed familiar with every apartment-until, opening a door, they found a thick curtain of arras before them. A finger on the lip was a sufficient sign to be silent, aad a chink in the drapery was soon discovered, through which they could see without being seen. Instinctively Louise felt that the last act of a tragedy was approaching. Only Harcourt and another were in the room, which was but feebly lighted, and the fire had sunk low, for the gamblers heeded nothing but their one mad pursuit. The flush of success which half-an-hour before would have been seen on the countenance

cards, were to decide the stake, and once more the
horrid sound fell upon the ear of poor Louise.
They were thrown, and Harcourt-lost. For a
moment his frame shuddered, and perhaps he felt
the villain he had become.

"The name?" exclaimed his antagonist.
"Walter Berriton !"

Even the hardened gambler seemed to recoil
from Harcourt with horror, as he exclaimed,
"The master of this house!-Is it possible?"
The moment after the name of Berriton had
been uttered, the stranger supported Louise to an
adjoining chamber, where her natural timidity over-
powered by her strong emotions, she clung to his
arm, and with upturned countenance besought his
aid, exclaiming,

"You have said that you are powerful; save, in mercy save Colonel Berriton."

"Dear lady, he is safe, quite safe." "Yes, now," rejoined Louise; "but he is returning to England immediately; warn him of his danger; and save, ob, save him."

"Believe me, there is no just cause for your apprehension; but I will see him-immediatelyto-night. And what must I tell him from you?"

"Tell him-that I part from Harcourt for ever!"

"And nothing else?" said the stranger.

"Yes; that I thank him from my heart of hearts, for the zeal he has shewn to serve me; but add, if you must add the truth, that if he has proved false to the sovereign who trusted him, henceforth I believe not in honesty."

"What if the King is most anxious to recall Bolingbroke; what if it be truth that he will soon be pardoned; what if Berriton has but now returned from a secret mission of his sovereign, whose warrant he carries with him?"

Louise Merrivale was too bewildered with joy
to speak, and in another moment the stranger's
disguise was
cast aside, and Berriton himself

knelt at her feet.
"Louise," he murmured, in accents of pas-
sionate tenderness; 66
you have much to forgive;
but dare I plead in excuse that your good aunt
has been my fellow culprit."

That she did forgive him there is pretty good reason to believe; as the day she reached her majority she became the wife of Colonel Berriton, who however was previously raised to the title of Viscount.

As this is a tale of by-gone times, we will be old-fashioned enough to point its moral, perhaps because the whim is on us so to do-perhaps because we distrust the force of our own narrative.

Gentlemen--Don't, if you are engaged to a beautiful heiress, defy a man who loves her also to win her from you; or, if you should be guilty of this folly, don't aid his endeavours by neglecting the lady. Don't stake your acres (especially your last) on the turn of a card, or the cast of a die; and don't promise your wife's fortune, at all events, until you have got it. Remember, too, how often fortune, fame, and honour, have been ingulfed in the vortex of play. Above all, if in your need a friend lends you his house, don't peep into any drawers he may carelessly have left unlocked. Don't look into letters that don't concern you, for the knowledge so gained is more likely to be dangerous to yourself than to any one else. Don't betray your friend, or be guilty of any other dishonourable action; for, though a woman may forgive your spending her fortune, she will-if she be worth one honest thought-cease to love where she ceases to esteem.

Ladies-If you are entrapped into an engagement by false appearances with a worthless man, rejoice and be grateful if by any means, however harsh, your eyes are opened to escape-while there is yet time.

A CHRISTMAS HYMN.

BY W. G. J. BARKER, ESQ.

When Christ from heaven, bis pure abode,
Descended to our sinful clime,

It was not in the summer months,
But in the dreary winter time.
No silken couch received him then,
In a rude manger low he lay ;
But seraph guardians stood around,
And angels hymn'd his natal day.

O'er Bethelem's fields a lambent light,
Ere morning dawn'd was seen to gleam;
Alike it gilded cot and tower,

Each flinty rock and limpid stream.
A shepherd band astonish'd saw
The glorious cherubim appear,
And heard their everlasting song

Burst sweetly from the radiant sphere.
The first great promise is fulfill'd;
Tremble ye demons of the air!

To your eternal dungeon haste,

And howl and weep in darkness there!
Rejoice, ye heavens! and sing thou earth!
Ye blooming vales and deserts wild,
Hail to the Saviour, virgin born!
Hail stainless Mother! Holy Child!
The king foretold of David's line,

Whom faithful Abraham saw afar-
He who shall give the Gentiles light
Is come-the bright, the Morning Star.
Of Him the prophets witness bore,

To spring from virgin undefiled;
Worship him angels, saints, and men!
HAIL BLESSED MOTHER! HOLY CHILD!
Banks of the Yore.

"SMILE ON, NOR VENTURE TO UN-
MASK MAN'S HEART."

Yet what a book is here! and how unread,
How seal'd the mysteries which written lie
Upon the pages of the human Heart!
Who ever found a voice to echo them?
Who ever breathed of all the riches there-
The secret mines, the vast, the hidden depths
Of thought and feeling? Language could not paint
The dream of one poor life. There is the world,
The crowd we move in; but apart from that
Peopled: yes, visions of the Past are there,
There is the world within, with memories
Breathing again their tale of love-no look,
No tone forgot; and senseless things, which were
A part of this young dream, are with us still,
Painted in fadeless colours on the heart.
And then the dreaming Future-say what hopes,
Forebodings, fears, are present with that word!
How we aspire to tread some chosen path,
Unmindful of its dangers or its thorns,
And dream that we shall cull the flow'rs at last!
And yet we're doom'd to linger on our way,
And never reach the haven of our hopes;
Or all too late, our short life almost gone.
Who ever yet bath read the secret thoughts,
The sympathies, the yearnings of the soul,
The young life's longings, and the vain regrets
Of age? Who ever yet confess'd the spell,
Attracting him to beings scarcely known-
The electric spark of human sympathy,
Filling the eyes with tears. Yet should the Soul
Look out upon this world for one short hour,
How shrinks it back from present noise and din
To feed again on memory and hope!
The Present seems in vain; we ever dream
Of what we have been, or what we would be,
And hurry on, or ling'ring turn to gaze
Upon the distant pathways we have trod;
And thus do often trample on the flow'rs,
And beedless crush the blossoms, few and rare,
An All-wise Hand hath scattered at our feet.

ELLEN S. M.

THE TALE OF ZALEUKOS, THE ONE

HANDED MERCHANT.

BY MYRRHA.

I was born in Constantinople, where my father carried on a lucrative business as dealer in silks, shawls, essences, perfumed oils, &c. He gave me a good education, instructing me carefully himself and procuring for me the advantages of the tuition of a learned priest who resided in our neighbourhood. At first it had been his intention that I should be placed in his warehouse and eventually succeed him; but as I gave early indications of great talent, he acted upon the advice of some friends, and determined to make me a physicianthis being a very lucrative profession in Constantinople, especially to a talented man who could be well introduced.

Many French merchants were in the habit of visiting at our house, and one of them persuaded my father to permit me to return with him to Paris; holding out as an inducement the facilities afforded by that capital for the acquirement of a medical education. My father, who had in his youth been a great traveller, readily consented, and the Frenchman bade me be prepared to start in three months. I was almost beside myself with joy at the bright anticipations of seeing foreign countries, and could scarcely await the appointed time with any degree of patience. At length however it came, the Frenchman had completed all his business, and was ready to start.

that I resolved to embrace the first opportunity which offered of returning, and this resolution was strengthened by the circumstance of my having received no tidings of my father for many months.

Hearing of an embassy which was about to be dispatched to my own country, I got myself appointed to it as physician, and reached Stambul in safety.

On arriving at my father's house I found it shut up, and was informed by the neighbours that he had been dead two months. The priest, of whom I have before spoken, hearing of my return, came and brought me the key, and melancholy and alone I once more entered the now desolate abode of my childhood. All appeared to be exactly as no money, or document relative to any. On menmy father had left it, excepting that I could find tioning this to the priest, he said "Your father, ere he died, bequeathed his money to the church, and his soul is now blessed by that good deed." Remembering, as I did, the last words my revered parent had ever uttered to me, I could not place much credence in this statement; but it was useless for me to say anything, I had no proofs of his having robbed me, and so far from complaining, might consider myself well off that he had left me the merchandise.

The loss of my father was the first sorrow or misfortune I had ever felt; but from that time blow fell on blow fast and thick. As a physician I was unknown, uncalled for; I was too proud and reserved to have recourse to puffs or quackery, and my father was no longer alive to assist me by his connection and interest. Nor did I prosper better as a merchant, for the news of my father's death had gone abroad, and that was but slowly replaced by the intelligence that a son had succeeded to him. Nothing in short_appeared to

ing on my dreary prospects, I remembered, during my residence abroad, often to have seen merchants from my own country travelling from place to place, and exposing their wares for sale at the different fairs or festivals, and to have heard them say that great profits were thus to be made, as foreign goods invariably find ready purchasers.

My resolution was immediately taken-I disof the money arising from this sale in trust in the posed of my paternal dwelling, placed one portion hands of a wealthy merchant, vested the remainder in the purchase of shawls, brocades, essences, perfumes, &c., hired a vessel and set out for France. No sooner had I turned my back on the towers of Dardanelle than fortune once more smiled on me;

On the evening preceding our departure, my father summoned me to his closet, on entering which I saw clothes, arms, and money laid out on the table. Tenderly embracing me, he said-" Behold, my son, these things have I prepared for the jour-prosper with me, until one day, as I sat meditatney. Those weapons I now bestow on you, they are the same which my grandfather gave me when I first quitted the paternal roof; use them, my son, but do not abuse them; and never draw your sword unless you are attacked. That pile of gold pieces is also yours. My property is not large, but I have divided it into three equal parts; the first I give you now, the second is for my own expenses and for the furtherance of my business, and the third I shall keep inviolable for you in case of need, or for the advancement of your future fortunes." Thus spoke my aged parent; tears dimmed his eyes; he folded me again and again to his bosom-perhaps with a secret presentiment that he should never behold me more-and at length blessing me fervently, suffered me to depart. Our journey was pleasant, and unmarked by adventures, and we arrived in due time in Paris, where my friend hired apartments for me, and instructed me how to invest my money to the greatest advantage. For three years I resided there, and diligently studied every branch of the sciences usually considered as necessary for a physician; but I could not accommodate myself to the manners and customs of the people, nor did I make many friends. My heart was at home, a longing for my native land constantly possessed me, and at length became so invincible

my journey was agreeable and advantageous; I found a ready sale for my merchandize, and soon had to write to my correspondents at Stambul for fresh supplies.

Every day seemed to bring with it an increase of prosperity, and I had soon laid by a sufficiently large sum to admit of my venturing to enlarge my speculations. I must, however, confess that all my gains did not arise from merchandize alone; I practised as a physician whenever I found an opportunity, and on my arrival at each town always announced that a celebrated Grecian physician had come, whose talents and wonderful cures were un