some of them passed as the twinkling of an eye, and we cannot recall any trace of them; but this day, though intensely happy, counted out its minutes to us as a miser would his gold.

On that glorious morning, as the day was mounting to its noon, we cast ourselves at the foot of one of the 'immemorial elms,' and lay long gazing up into its wealth of leaves. Above, white, fleecy clouds sailed across the sky like merchant ships steadily and quietly making for the port; out of sight, some skylark poured out its song in everascending treble, to which the thrushes furnished the contralto; and beneath all was the soft underground of bass, made by the monotonous surge of the innumerable leaves, like the waves breaking upon the faroff shore of a summer sea. So we lay quietly musing, until, at length -whether in sleep or in gentle day-dream we cannot tell-the mutable shapes of earth and sky began to assume other forms, and one by one, vision after vision floated past us in which every-day truths took palpable embodiment. As thus :

THE THREE SISTERS.

Man travels the pilgrimage of life with three constant companions. One treads ever closely behind him. Her step is heavy, and her figure bent, as having seen cares and sorrows; she is clothed in dark colours, with long sweeping garments; in her hand she carries a scroll, closely covered within and without with written characters; she is crowned with a sober cloud, which partially conceals her face; when she looks out, her eyes are grave, and sometimes reproachful, and there is sadness even in her smile. Her name is, YESTERDAY. Another walks always by man's side, with as regular and even step as the beat of his own pulse. She can be neither impelled into haste, nor persuaded into delay. Her face is not comely, but is constantly changing in expression-sometimes earnest, sometimes frivolous; now expectant, now disappointed, and anon bewildered. Her vesture is grey; her hand holds an hour-glass, which, whenever the sand has run out, she turns; round her head is a simple coronet of gold, in which is set one large lustrous diamond. Her name is To-DAY. The third sister keeps always in advance of the pilgrim, with light and buoyant step, which sometimes breaks out into a dance as she hurries gaily onward. She is clad in rosy raiment, so transparent as to betray the outline of her graceful form, and her eyes are full of light and laughter. A telescope is in her hand, and since, though the sunshine is upon her path, some dark cloud is always beyond her, her crown is a rainbow. She is called TO-MORROW. When they speak with the pilgrim, Yesterday addresses herself to his memory, To-day to his conscience, and To-morrow to his hope. During the journey each of them relieve him of part of his burden; Yesterday helps him to carry his sins, To-day his sorrows, and To-morrow his resolutions. Yesterday he strives to forget; To-day he struggles to avoid; but To-morrow he idolizes and hotly pursues. Poor, dissatisfied pilgrim ; he does not wish to turn back to her who is crowned with cloud; he does not desire the inevitable presence of her who is crowned with

gold; but he pants after her whose diadem is a rainbow, though she can never be reached. How glad would he be to change his companionship. If To-day were to become Yesterday it would be a rejoicing to him, but he still more desires that she should become To-morrow. Yesterday has many claims upon him which he has long neglected, but he upbraids her when he is reminded of them; he does not believe in the power of To-day to help him, and he will not ask her aid; but he turns to To-morrow, in whose omnipotence he has great faith, and she, with many promises on her lip, comes not near to him, but still travels gaily forward towards the dark cloud which lies upon the horizon. Each of the sisters carries a purse at her girdle. Poor Yesterday's is often quite empty; To-day's contains a few golden pieces, just enough to supply all present wants; To-morrow's is quite full, but many of the coins are counterfeits, so that if Yesterday is ever to be paid, it must be with this counterfeit money. Oh! that the pilgrim would but listen to the counsels of To-day, even though she be not comely in countenance, for she alone can help him. Though she wears no rosy garments, and speaks no flattering words, yet is she his truest friend. Let him take her golden pieces and give them in alms to the hungry and the perishing, then will To-morrow learn to lay up for him heaps of enduring treasure; the dark cloud behind her shall be lined with golden light; and even when he looks back to illused Yesterday, she shall wear a smile. But if he will not be wise— if, careless of To-day, he pursues ever the fascinating To-morrowthen her beauty is destined to grow less and less in his eyes as he pantingly flies after her; when, at last, he grasps her, she shall become a phantom in his arms, and he shall find himself suddenly surrounded by the EVERLASTING NOW.

Lying thus at rest beneath the loftiest poplar, sheltered by a million murmuring leaves, through which the fierce sun-rays filtered themselves down into gentleness, dream followed dream, and fancy tripped the heels of fancy, in each of which some human faith or duty clothed itself in natural symbol. Let us try to recall another :

THE ANGEL OF KNOwledge.

When the ancestral man first walked the solitudes of the ancient Paradise, the Divine Father saw it was not good that he should dwell alone, and in his love gave to him both an earthly and a heavenly companion. This second and still greater blessing came to him on this wise. One day, when his cup of labour had been filled, and now brimmed over into pleasant rest, though he heard no footfall, a subtle sense within his soul bade him look up, and he saw standing at his feet the Angel of Knowledge. 'I am come,' she said, 'to lead thee through the earth. I am commissioned to show thee its treasures, and unveil the hidden meanings. So she abode with him many days. Very glorious was she in form, and most musical of speech. Sometimes when she walked in the deep shadows she seemed luminous like a star, as though the gloss of heaven were still upon her. Her steps in the garden might be traced by the little tufts of angelicas, violets and cyclamens, which only there were found growing together, and

her words were as pearls. Yet with all her loveliness, she was veiled. Sometimes when she met the morning breeze, the outline of her face was sharpened enough to hint the beauty beneath, and she was ever ready to discourse, teaching her scholar that the material universe was no more than the index of the far greater world of mind and spirit. The gentle mystery surrounding her did but increase the attraction of her presence, and deepen the solemnity of her words. She was ready too, whenever man should be able to endure the light of her countenance, to look upon him with open face, and lay bare the truth in such microcosm as he could comprehend. But he, foolish mortal! impatient for the splendour of the vision, one day, rudely and rashly sought to snatch the veil from her features, and look into her eyes. Then fled she as a startled fawn, not leaving the world, but hiding herself in silence and secrecy. Oh, shape of loveliness, oh, lip of wisdom, where is thy refuge? For now the garden is laid level with the wilderness around, the earth responds but sullenly to the care of the husbandman, and labour is toil and tears. The angel has not left us, but she no longer sits by our side; no longer distils her speech as the dew. Man strives after her, yet often she eludes his fastest flight. Only can he catch glimpses of her garments in the clefts of the rocks, on the borders of the precipice, or hear her whispers in the night. At best he wins from her but half messages, and partly articulable meanings, for his sin has sealed her lips until his purification be accomplished. One thing alone sustains his strength and girds his loins. There has come to him the promise of an hour-a golden hour, marked only in God's calendar, which shall give her to his eyes again, without her veil, that he may sit at her feet, or lay his head in her bosom, and be at peace. May-hap his obedience will be perfected in the remembrance how hardly she was won.

Looking up steadfastly unto the sky while now the sun was westering, watching the sailing clouds driven by soft compulsion before the wind as though they were the sheep he was guiding away from the blue pastures to fold them at evening in the golden gardens of the sunset, our thoughts also yielded themselves to the sway of every breath of fancy, and we were quickly borne along the bosom of new similitudes. We saw a youth floating down a stream in a boat, singing to himself, all forgetful that he was being drifted onwards to the ocean and the night and the storm. We heard half strains of once familiar, but long forgotten melodies coming up the wind, and straightway we saw the great ocean of Memory dividing itself like the Red Sea, opening out a passage to our feet, so that we could stoop as we journeyed, and gather into our bosoms, one by one, the treasures of the past. But alas! pen and ink cannot fly so fast as summer thoughts, and the inexorable laws of space circumscribe us. Thus however our first holiday declined, and presently came the sunset. The pilgrim clouds, which had been creeping across the desert sky, now walked upon the western verge within the precincts of the receding glory, as though they had reached the Holy City, and were prostrating themselves before the golden shrine. Walking home in

the twilight, we heard the birds from their nests utter the last subdued notes of their evening hymn, while Night's thousand eyes began to open on the world as the memorial of Him who neither slumbers nor sleeps.' Then there awoke in our heart also a responsive chord of praise; whether its notes are original, or only remembered, we cannot tell, and are really not much concerned to know. We can only say they chimed in our thought all night like distant bells summoning to prayer.

When the glad day has left the sky,
When twilight airs begin to sigh,
And pass upon their solemn way,
As though they mourned the dying day;
When softly falls the quiet dew,
As if it wept its closing too;
When sudden breezes rise to sing
The requiem o'er its burying;
When in the field the cattle rest;

When there is warmth within the nest;
When there is sleep upon the flower;
When there is silence in the hour;
When Night, with her be jewelled pall,
Spreads glorious darkness over all;
My soul! review thy day-path trod,
Lift up thy voice, and talk with God.

Ah! happy day, now only a memory to us!

North. It resembles some one or other of those longest days that half a century ago used to enshroud us in the imagery of some more celestial sphere than our waning life now inhabits-when between sunrise and sunset, lingeringly floated by what was felt in its bliss and beauty to be a whole golden age.

6

Shepherd. I should na hae been sorry to hae said that mysel, sir, for it's rather-verra-beautifu'; and the expression, while it is rich, is simpler than your usual style, which I canna help thinkin', has a tendency to the over ornate.'*

H. W. P.

Monthly Retrospect.

THE reader will not need to be informed that the House of Commons and the 'other House' have been sitting now for nearly a month. Addressed, at the commencement of their proceedings, in a speech from the Throne more than usually bald and unmeaning-but a speech that promised as much as Lord Palmerston was expected to perform-they have contrived to do as little as possible towards filling up even the small and limited programme laid down for him by her Majesty's ministers. Deliberative assemblies, where deliberation is only a means to action, seldom make much progress in their work without a good impulse at starting, and a good expectation going along with them. Without this, they are like men who are obliged to work with neither encouragement nor pay. They feel that all that they

Noctes Ambrosianæ, December, 1834.

may do, or try to do, will be useless, while the dead weight of a cabinet is behind them. The present House has evidently a sullen conviction that it would be a waste of time, that might be better spent in preparing for next year's campaign, to attempt, just now, any great measure of legislative reform. So, like the sailor described in Mr. Dana's vivid history of his 'Two Years before the Mast,' they row quietly and silently, saving their whole strength until the end of their journey is at hand, when, with the energy of long-prepared power, they carry their boats in a moment over the breaking and foaming surf. We can excuse, therefore, a quiet session this year, if the quietism be preserved with a view to more serious and energetic action when Parliament next meets; if it be not, we may pretty safely predict that, like the Californian boatmen, members will find that though they may not be ready for the surf, the surf will be ready for them.

The two great questions concerning which expectation stood on tiptoe when Parliament, met, were the Reform of the Representation, and the abolition of Church-rates. To have promised either of these in the speech from the Throne, without intending to carry them, would have been to compromise the honour of majesty-a thing that Charles the First did not hesitate to do, but that Victoria very probably would, even though it might keep the member for Tiverton in power another year. The First Minister was therefore thrown back upon himself, and found, without difficulty, his usual supply of defensive armour. Mr. Roebuck getting upon his legs to state that he should shortly move a resolution in favour of Reform, the noble lord unhesitatingly announced that the Cabinet had considered the question, and thought that a large and comprehensive measure could not well be prepared this session; but that if Parliament would wait, something might be done next year. On which Mr. Roebuck, with marvellous and most unusual credulity, at once withdrew his motion, coming down, as Mr. Slick says his birds always do, without waiting to be shot at, because they don't like to give unnecessary trouble. The same indefinite statement was made about Church-rates, the noble lord carefully avoiding both promise or pledge in the matter, but leaving those who do not know him with the impression that a carefully prepared' bill will be brought in in the course of the session. We think it just possible that one may be, as Palmerston says, 'brought in; but with a Tory in power, it would be absolute lunacy to expect that it can be satisfactory to Dissenters. The very fact of its being delayed by careful preparation,' should be sufficient to warn those who are opposed to the continuance of this iniquity, that, at the best, the bill can be nothing but an elaborate compromise. The Cabinet have Sir William Clay's bill ready drawn, and that is the only measure which Dissenters ought to accept. We trust that the Liberation Society will, on this occasion, resolutely resist any attempt at compromise, and that it will actively and energetically use its resources against any measure, by whomsoever drawn or introduced, that will not provide for the entire, immediate, and unqualified abolition of this impost.

The only bills of any public interest or importance that at present lie open for discussion, are the Oaths Abolition, the Ministers' Money, the Divorce, and the Testamentary Jurisdiction Bills. The speech of the First Minister