And I had sat upon the crag,
Until I might appear

To dazzled eyes, an angel come
From the celestial sphere;

So burnish'd was that lofty crag,
With the deep purple glare,
So richly hung the youthful rays,
Upon my figure there.

And I had left my throne of light,
And sought the mountain track,
Which, winding far with many a charm,
Unto my home led back.

And oh! my soul was full of joy!

My motions light and free;

As I from that ennobling sight,

Had immortality.

And as in joy I stepp'd along,

With many a pleasing thought, Eagerly struggling into life,

And music to be brought.

Where, as that pathway branch'd aside,
The gleam of garments gay,
Seen shining through the lofty fence,
Drove all my dreams away.

I felt a feeling first of pain,

That thoughts which lately gush'd So full and freely to my lips,

Should thus at once be hush'd.

But soon the feeling past away,
And wonder took its place;
An anxiousness to know who then
Could be at that lone place.

For towns as yet were not awake,
And such a calm had flow'd

Into my breast, I felt as if
I only were abroad!

Oh, that I e'er should own I used
The cunning of a spy,

I gently crept, and peep'd for those
Whose gleam had caught my eye.

And there, upon the pathway bank,
With features full of glee,
Two little milkmaids sitting were,
And chatting joyously.

But very children did they seem,

And yet of womanhood;

An air dwelt in each face and form,

Hard to be understood.

So trig was each of them in dress,

So jauntily was tied

The muslin bonnet on the head,
A little to the side.

And oh! had cities all that were

Produced their boasted fairs,

Not midst them all would there be one
With beauty like to theirs.

No art required to raise their bloom
Or bring their charms to view,
Pure as the daises at their feet,
As fresh and lovely too!

Looking into each others face,
With features brimm'd with glee,
These little milkmaids sitting were,
And chatting joyously.

My soul had been immersed in joy
By the uprising sun,

But these small milkmaids gave me mora
Than ever he had done.

Oh! 'twas indeed a lovely sight,

And I was proud to know

That I belong'd unto the land
That could such picture shew.

I wonder'd what they spake about
With such an eargeness-
Was it about their glittering pails?
About their Sabbath dress?

Or did they speak about the state
These little hearts were in?
Or was he prais'd, the youthful swain,
Each held in love within?

I breath'd a blessing on them both,
While tears stood in my eye-

The blessing of an earnest man
Hath ever its reply.

They might get sooner o'er their task

Had they been talking less,

But I could not disturb a chat

That own'd such happiness.

So, turning back, I sought a path

That led across the lea,

And left the milkmaids sitting there,

Still chatting joyously.

HEATHER.

ADELIZA SNOOKS.

A ROMANCE OF PECULIAR AND STARTLING INTEREST.

BY PEGASUS PIPKIN.

ADELIZA SNOOKS was in the flower of her virginity-Adeliza Snooks was eighteen!

*

*

The evening was balmy, the sea was bright, and surrounded by beautiful plants— type of herself-Adeliza sat gazing thereon. Her eye was pensive; her mien was

contemplative, and dashed with a shade of melancholy. Why sat she there? For whom was she gazing?

The charms of Rosalind were sung by the bard of Avon-a bard of Milford Haven, Endymion Tomkins by name, by trade a perruquier, thus sang those of Adeliza Snooks. Endymion Tomkins had a Bulwerian impediment, which was distwessingly wavishing," but thus he sang:

66

Adeliza Snooks sold oysters! Oh, jealousy! thou art the green-eyed lobster that mak'st the meat thou feed'st upon.

In Milford Haven dwelt a youthful floriculturist, whose form of perfect symmetry might have vied with the Apollo of Belvidere-whose eye of purest cerulean, and whose breath of sweetest odour rivalled the hue of his violets, and the fragrance of his choicest plants. He came into the presence of Adeliza Snooks, and a star fell from heaven! The page of true love was thenceforth smutched and darkened! Yes! Narcissus Chickweed was prostrate at the feet of Adeliza Snooks, and Adeliza Snooks pickled the hand of Narcissus Chickweed with her briny tears.

The lattice of Adeliza's chamber was, for a moment, clouded. It was succeeded by a rush a hollow sound, and lo! the apartment was filled with the presence of Endymion Tomkins.

"Hell and torments!"

Narcissus sprung to his feet, and responded, -"Damnation!"
Adeliza Snooks echoed,-

'Gracious Ev'ns!"

In the hair of Endymion Tomkins was two pennyworth of the essence of Bergamottin his eye was devouring flame-and

"There was a laughing devil in his sneer."

In the button hole of Narcissus Chickweed was a dahlia-beneath it was a heart"whose passions knew no sleep,

But beat tumultuous and deep!"

Endymion Tomkins glared upon Narcissus Chickweed, and muttered-"Wascal." Narcissus Chickweed looked thrice up and down. Endymion Tomkins turned from him with ineffable disdain, and focalized a world of love upon the weeping form of his adored Adeliza.

The sky darkened—a blaze of light entered the chamber, and a peal of thunder rang in the air.

Endymion Tomkins spake not-moved not; he was sensible only to revenge! There was a tremulous motion discernible in his rivals lip. Ha! was it fear? Tomkin's brow deepened in gloom, and his eye flamed! In the right-hand pocket of his striped vest gleamed a pair of scissors! They were small-haply not more than six inches in length; but, as to the guilty senses of Macbeth, the illusive dagger was rendered distinct and palpable, even so to the like guilty senses of Narcissus Chickweed, were the six-inch scissors elongated to a formidable sword, bearing upon its shining blade this terrible legend

"Beware the avenger!"
*
*
*

The instinct of self-preservation, natural to man and brute when menaced by danger, had its due influence upon Narcissus Chickweed. He drew from his vest a knife— tried its edge upon his thumb, and stood upon the defensive.

Too fond, too susceptible Adeliza—happily for thee thy senses were enchained, or such a scene had rent thy tender heart. Tomkins advanced-Chickweed, yes, Chickweed

recoiled! He approached the wall-had it not been of six-inch brick, he must have pierced it-the weapon fell from his grasp-the avenger pressed onward. Still the victim struggled to retreat. He compressed himself into an inconceivably diminutive space-he became a mere ball-a grape shot-a pea-an uncertain speck-a thing that was fast fading into nothing,-when, mad with baffled vengeance, Tomkins smotethe weapon stuck in the mortar-the lattice was shivered to atoms! Yes! Chickweed

had escaped!

At the feet of Adeliza Snooks knelt Endymion Tomkins. Her eyes gradually opened, but speculation-was somewhere else!

Tomkins spake. "Lady, behold the wictor!"

She fell upon

His voice dissolved the spell that bound her. Her senses returned. his neck-but why attempt to describe indescribable things? Ere a week had flown, Endymion Tomkins wedded Adeliza Snooks!

NIGHT.

FROM AN UNPUBLISHED POEM.

'Tis night, and Cynthia throws her robe
Of silver o'er the tranquil globe ;
Lulled into rest, the gentle breeze
Scarce moves the leaflet on the trees;
The classic Avon flows along,
Smooth as the murmurs of a song,
While o'er its side the willows bend
Their graceful boughs, and beauty lend
To that fair stream; a silence reigns
Profound and deep o'er earth's domains,
Save when the baying of the hound
Wakes up the mimic echoes round,
Or softly through the wooded dells
The nightingale's wild music swells.
Oh! who could plan, at such a time,
Dark deeds of bloodshed and of crime?
When every star that beams on high
Seems like a never-sleeping eye
To watch us through the silent night,
And bring each deed of guilt to light!
Who does not lose each grovelling sense
In night's exalting influence,

And soar from earth to worlds more fair,
Beyond the reach of time and care?

Rob Roy Lodge, Stepney District.

E. D. CHATTAWAY.

THE KEY OF THE HEART.

BY JOHN BOLTON ROGERSON.

Ir was a wild and stormy winter afternoon, and the thickly falling snow was whirled by in frequent and fantastic gusts. The streets were noiseless, for the footsteps of the passengers were unheard, and few cared to unbury their mouths from the folds that enveloped them, to give utterance to words. The fleecy element had worked a fringe of silver on doors and windows, and on every projecting part of the dwelling houses, and the earth seemed converted into a white pedestal, where the buildings stood like the toys of a young giant. What a snug and cozy feeling comes over those who

VOL. 8-No. 5-Y.

are seated in warm and comfortable rooms on such a day as the one described-how they gather around the cheerful hearth and alternately watch the bright blaze go frolicing up the chimney, or gaze upon the snow-wreaths that are silently and gracefully descending without. To the benevolent heart, feelings of a more subdued and sympathetic nature are also brought, and a thought goes forth to those less fortunate fellow-creatures, whose heads are unsheltered, and whose hearts are ungladdened by the smiling comforts of a happy home. In a spacious room in a handsome house, situated in the city of Bristol, sat a young merchant, together with his wife, listening to the prattle of two fair children, who, in all the innocence and freshness attendant upon the dawn of existence, were giving utterance to each thought and emotion that animated them. There is no disguise in childhood; it is only in after-years that we see the necessity of thinking of the results before we give breath to our sentiments. Ever and anon the children would run to the window and look with wonder and admiration on the cold and icy feathers that were fluttering about and clinging to the garments of the passing wayfarers. Then they would ask their father many questions which he was at times vastly puzzled to answer, but he told them tales of snow-drifts wherein had perished not only cattle but human beings, and of the good monks of St. Bernard and their sagacious dogs, and of the fearful avalanche, and of those cheerless climes from which the snow was never absent. And when he told them of weary travellers who had sunk down to die amid the snow, and of young children who had rambled away to bleak and desolate places, and wept themselves to sleep from which they never awoke on earth, and of the grief of their unhappy parents, the hearts of the youthful listeners grew sad, and their eyes became dimmed with tears. The sound of voices called them to the window, and, as if in illustration of the tales they had been hearing, they saw a crowd gathered around a haggard and wretchedly-clad female, who bore in her arms a sickly infant, and who had sunk exhausted from want and cold on the chilly ground. The merchant looked in the eyes of his wife and children, and he hesitated not to order the poor creatures to be conveyed into his dwelling, and furnished with the necessary aids to their recovery. The woman lingered for some days, but nature had been vanquished by want and misery, and human help was no longer available to prolong her earthly existence. She died, and as she had represented herself to be a friendless widow on her way to claim the relief of her parish, the merchant saw her decently interred, and his benevolent heart would not permit him to consign the orphan child to the workhouse. He kept it in his household, and it grew up to a rosy and healthy girlhood. Mary Brooks (so was it called) became at length a favoured and confidential domestic, holding an intermediate rank in the family between a daughter and a servant.

As the merchant's years increased, so did his wealth. His children also increased, and his home was the abode of happiness and peace. His was no severe and harsh mode of government; he sought not to rule by commands, but requests-not to make his servants and his family quail at his presence, but to regard his approach as the harbinger of good. He had one maxim which he at all times acted upon, that "kindness was the key of the human heart," and the spirit of this maxim was felt in every branch of his establishment. The master's mild and placid looks were reflected by those about him, and from the meanest porter to the chief clerk there were evidences of content and pleasant servitude. Looks of regret followed his departure from his warehouse, and his children hailed his appearance with cries of delight. His heart was never closed even against the passing beggar, and though he might at times be subject to imposition, he consoled himself with the reflection that he had not denied assistance to the really deserving. In the midst of his tranquil prosperity-circumstances occurred which were the occasion of considerable annoyance to him. His family complained that at different periods trinkets of small value had unaccountably disappeared, and in spite of their careful and most minute searches no trace could be found of them. For some time these trifling losses made no impression upon the merchant's mind, but when they still kept occurring at brief intervals he began to be seriously disturbed and perplexed. It was not the loss of the articles which had weight with him, but he became impressed with the idea that some of his domestics were dishonest. The loss of a piece of jewellery of more value than any which had previously been missed increased his alarm and uneasiness, and shewed him the necessity of keeping a strict watch over the members of his household. Without giving vent to his suspicions, he narrowly observed the actions and demeanour of his domestics, and what was his